I have no clue about what occurs straightaway. Questions are mist; I can't frame them.
More tape closes off the lobby where it drives down to the indirect access. We venture into the front room, where yet more tape glimmers on the opposite side of the French windows. There are two individuals in hooded papery jumpsuits in the back garden. A more seasoned, hippy-ish looking lady I don't perceive is perched on the couch. She gazes upward and makes proper acquaintance, her smooth silver sway getting a shaft of daylight. Residue bits float, sparkle.
'You should be Isla,' she says, her eyes pale dim yet warm. She is close to seventy, I think.
'Hello,' I say.
'I'm Amaya. I'm so exceptionally upset for your misfortune.' She presses a botched tissue to her eyes and sniffs profoundly.
'Much th
