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He raised his head and blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to what little light shone through the shadows of the mangroves surrounding the catholic mission. He got up and leaned to the window, resting both his elbows on the sill. Most of the refugees had remained; a few pregnant mothers shared tents with other families, while the rest simply slept on the ground, sharing blankets, mats, rugs and pillows.A faint lamp light shone from a hut next to the church across from the small barn-turned-warehouse where Ethan had been sleeping. It was the priest's hut, the same man who tried to convince him to leave, just like Nicole did.Ethan scowled for a moment before he put on his trousers carefully, without so much as a sound. He kept his eyes fixed on the priest's hut, noticing the movement of a shadow now and then, the flicker of the flame. Someone was working late, and he needed to know who and on what.He strapped his combat knife in its sheath around his leg, and jumped outside through. Her dead mobile phone mocked her on the coffee table. Her dad had a routine when he came into the house; keys and wallet in the old fruit bowl on the hall table and phone in the charger. He was a bit OCD about it. Now she wished she had been more like him. Emily picked up the house phone, surprised the line was still live, but who would she ring at 1 am? Certainly not her parents, even though her dad had left her aunt’s number on a post-it note stuck to the handset. The little telephone directory next to it had the numbers of her parent’s friends and a few relatives, all in her mum's neat handwriting. She realised her parents’ distrust of technology; preferring candles, landlines, paper phone books etc, was sensible and resolved to be less dependent on her £30 per month paperweight.An enormous crack of lightning brought her musings about generational differences to an abrupt end. Emily’s heart was racing. “Fuck that, I’ve had enough of this,” she told the cowering ghosts. She dialed.
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