there was no room for her to exist in their world. She was going to blink out like a dying spark. Someone spoke for her. ‘Malta is real. Malta exists. Malta is here.’ As if she were being wound up like a ball of yarn, the layers of herself were gradually restored to her. Someone held her against the maelstrom of forces that tried to shred her apart. It was like being cupped in warm hands. She curled tighter into herself, holding on. Finally, she spoke for herself. ‘I am Malta.’
