I’m riding pillion on a motorway on a speeding motorcycle.
The motorway is crowded with refugees.
Tarmac cracked and grassy.
Trees at the roadside.
Emaciated women push shelters on wheels of canvas suspended between clothing rails.
Tiny children play beneath.
The watch us as we approach.
We speed past, the motorcycle banking as we weave in an out of them.
I’m in bed, but clothed.
A sharp pain on my side wakes me.
Something hard and prickly under my clothing.
I push it down my sleeve to get it out.
It’s a large spider: light brown; legs with edges that end in points; teeth.