‘Oh my god, are you ok?’ The girl stroked Thandi’s back. ‘I used to get car sick all the time growing up—’
‘Just hungover,’ Thandi croaked but the girl was already recounting her childhood and how and when and why she had vomited so much back then. The coach heaved and humped along. To stave off her nausea, Thandi fixed her eyes on the girl’s nose, the smattering of freckles like make-up she hadn’t rubbed in. What would happen if those spots grew in number, merged, crowded her skin with melanin? How different this girl’s life would be, the one she was still stitching into a tread-bare story with her patchy memories of a small town in California. When the coach finally turned onto the smooth Great North Road, it felt like an exhalation. It gave Thandi an excuse to look out of the window. After a pause, she heard the rustle of the girl opening her stiff copy of Out of Africa.’