We find a washroom down the corridor, and then we bathe together, all tender caresses and quiet gestures while we speak such difficult words. And we have so many things to say. At my urging, he fills me in on what happened in Orea first. Then, it’s my turn, and I tell him everything. Every single thing that happened, from the second I jumped into the rip, to the moment he found me on that street. He listens with rapt attention, taking in every word, asking a question here or there, but mostly, just letting me get it all out. It’s cathartic, in a way. Like opening a festering wound. Letting the
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