Today Amy is able to make out some more words. She can read a word in the headline of a newspaper that someone has left folded on the table opposite. PEACE. She can make out some words in the sub-heading. PROCESS JEOPARDY. When she leans over, easing Kate with her, some of the words in the blocks of swimming black print detach themselves and flash into her head, theatre political loss the Israel. They surface out of the jumble so suddenly, so randomly and clearly that it's painful, like too much light entering the eye. She looks away, down into the dark below the table. There is a discarded food wrapper on the ground by her foot; too tempting; she tries to read what it says. She can make none of its words out. It's coming back, she thinks, and the thought fills her with excitement, and numb fear. It has been a long time. She has been puzzling at the lost shapes of words, gratefully taking their loss for granted, for the best part of eight years now, a short lifetime.