With a school-girl squeal that embarrassed her even in her solitude, Hasina scrambled to fling the filth from her arm and wipe it from her face. In the dim light of the one remaining bulb in the overhead fixture she tried to identify the writhing bit of slime.

Rust colored water was all that dampened her face. A scrap of an old dish glove was the only yellow in the sink. She could have laughed at her own silliness if it hadn’t been so frightening, if it hadn’t startled the acrid bile out of her stomach to assault the back of her throat.

Years of cryptic letters and hurried, vague phone calls from her father had left their toll. His work was something more than rocks and land forms, that much she knew. That’s what had drawn her all the way here, will or no will.

Slumping down along the battered refridgerator, Hasina sunk to the floor. The musty smell of the place lulled her senses, called her to sleep. Mysteries, she told herself, were best left for the light of day, not this fading twilight.