The book she had been reading was under her pillow, pressing its cover against her ear as if to lure her back into its printed pages.
Down there the nights are bright and nobody believes in the Devil.
Farid had brought an invisible guest with him. Fear.
The night swallowed him up like a thieving fox.
The truth's not pretty of course. No one likes to look it in the face.
What was a slap for ten pages of escapism, ten pages far from everything that made him unhappy, ten pages of real life instead of the monotony that other people called the real world?