6
James Dean of Peru
‘Teya?’ There was a soft tapping on her door. ‘Are you awake?’
‘Um, yes.’ She hadn’t been, but unfortunately she was now. Her head was splitting and her eyes were sore. A watery-grey light was filtering through the window, and a light drizzle spattered the glass. It didn’t look like a very nice morning. She thought she might stay exactly where she was, in bed, if she had any choice in the matter.
‘I must go out now,’ Isandro said through the closed door, ‘But I have something for you. It is a book. The Spanish book that you wanted.’
‘Oh, right.’ She had completely forgotten about it. ‘Thanks. I can do study today.’ Her English words felt like cotton wool in her mouth. Dry and somehow dead. She felt a fresh stab of grief. That’s right, Quechua was not hers any more
