Elizabeth Harris

I was in Texas at the time but a very long way from writing a novel about a woman whose husband can’t see her around another man, two violent crimes including an ambiguous rape, and the PTSD that conditions her life afterwards. I was maybe four.

The book was a worn, hard-back children’s book, about an inch thick, bound in dark blue cloth and frayed along the edges. It was *Cobi Camel,* by Nell Smid