The steam slowly cleared. His body was half submerged in the water. On his arms and chest and back settled a myriad of condensation droplets, splitting and diverting the light. It distracted him; he stared at the dew and contemplated if Don Juan was right and he had no space for him. Samuel came to no conclusion and he slipped his fingers under Don Juan's suspender on his right shoulder and pulled it over and down his arm. Then he did the same on the left side. Everything seemed to take a very long time. When both sides were out of the way, he turned back towards Don Juan and saw himself confronted with more buttons—holding together his shirt all the way down, in an endless column. He undid the first and felt exhausted. His head sunk downwards and he rested it on Don Juan's arm, that still lay on the rim of the bath. Everything got soft and dark.

Suddenly, water bit into his nostrils and Samuel startled awake. He had slipped face first into the water. In one sudden motion, he propped himself up on the rim and got up. The room spun. He got out of the bath anyway, half-closing his eyes, trusting his body to know what to do.

His body found its footing on the wet floor and he stood still for a moment. In the mirror, his own outline looked back at him. Someone had painted it in there with harsh brushstrokes and sharp angles. He reached into the pockets of the trousers hung up on the wall and took out the vial, to measure out half a dose. It was still night outside the windows—he feared the morning, and he could not fall asleep in the water. It was time. It was the only thing that made sense.

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