He stood in the hotel gardens that night, with the sound of Spanish guitar floating around him; the occasional laugh or cough rising above the clatter of cutlery on the plates of the diners under the restaurant trellises. Tipping his head back, he watched the night sky shining down on him, here on the edge of civilisation. The moon, tipped on its edge like a bowl, seemed to pour the milky way out across the sky like a messy child spilling paint across the heavens.

He tucked his finger into the collar of his shirt, and wiggled it, loosening his tie and undoing the top button. Taking off his jacket, he hung it carelessly on a branch, and slipped off his shoes.

Moving to the edge of the pool, he stared off into the distance, out of the gardens into the seemingly infinite desert scrub beyond. Then, after a brief, meditative pause, he dived: slipping silently into the water, barely a splash landing where his feet had left dark footprints on the warm slabs. Above the water, the stars danced like fireflies.