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lynched. Problem is, the village might turn against my parents when they realise I’m not available for lynching tomorrow morning. The soap jumps from my hands when Father enters the bathroom. There are no locks and no privacy in this house.  
    ‘Shame on you!’ A bellow that penetrates the window and travels along the streets into every neighbours’ home. ‘You! You! ’ He pokes an angry index finger at me. Silently, I turn around, showing him my bare back, daring him to finish what he began. He doesn’t speak another word. The door slams shut. I know what he wanted to shout at me. I wish you were dead and your brother alive. As if I didn’t know that already.
    I scrub my skin until it burns. Then I scrub some more, making sure it’ll feel raw for hours. I rinse the bloody wad of wool and squeeze out the water. Where does Mother keep a supply of dry ones? She never talks about “women’s issues.” Maybe I’ll just pinch my legs together for now; I’ll make a bloody mess soon anyway. But leaking from my privates is so gross, I decide to rip my worn-out shirt in four, fold one of the quarters, and stuff it into my panties.
    It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. The day is almost over; my life will be over with soon. Yet, I gaze at the bathroom door, unable to step out into the corridor. My knees are clacking against each other. My control is slipping. I dig my nails into my thighs until the pain stops the rising panic. What have you done, Micka? My only comforting thought is that of my knife on my skin.  
    By now, Father will be up at the reservoir, seeing to the Sequencer. Soon, I’ll know if the man’s dead or only injured.
    Shivering, I pull a nightshirt over my head and leave for my room. A stranger’s voice brings me to a stop; it mingles with my mother’s anxious voice and my father’s usual grumbling.
    It’s not the worst, it’s not the worst, my mind cries when I step into the kitchen.
    His shoulder-length black hair contrasts with the white bandage Mother is wrapping around his forehead. A hint of blood shines through the gauze. Underneath is a pair of black eyes, farther down, a compressed mouth. His skin is different from anyone’s I’ve ever seen. Darker; almost like barley roasted halfway, or the coffee we make of it mixed with lots of cream from Lampit’s goats.
    He sets his eyes on me and his look of annoyance changes to…I don’t know what. A dangerous flicker, some getting-ready-for-a-fight kind of expression, maybe.
    ‘I’d like to talk to your daughter in private.’
    My legs already have the consistency of jelly, but his request makes them all watery-wobbly and I need to sit or I’ll fall over. I walk to the kitchen table and plop down, unbidden. My face feels hot. My hands are quivering fists, each crowned by a row of white knuckles.
    Mother asks if she can do anything else for him, but he shakes his head. His eyebrows are drawn together. He’s blinking often, slightly turning his face away from the kitchen lamp. He must be in pain and his eyes overly sensitive to light. I take Mother’s yellow summer shawl from the chair and drape it over the lamp.
    My parents leave the room and the air acquires a flavour of quiet terror — taut and astringent.  
    When the door falls into its frame, my heart hollers for help.
    ‘Excellent reflexes. You did well.’
    At first, my brain doesn’t register this information. I repeat the words in my mind. Roll them over, sort them back to front and front to back. It must be a joke; although the man’s stern expression doesn’t change.
    ‘Does your head hurt?’ I whisper, because nothing else would voluntarily form in my brain.
    He ignores my question. ‘This was a test.’
    My mind clicks and begins to race. The blocked turbine, the carefully placed footprint. My mother asking for the Sequencer when I arrived, my father having a mysterious fever — they’ve known about this. A test, once complete, almost always has a result and a