CAMILLE’S BREATHING stays steady. She is lying on her front: early light is creeping over her outstretched hand.
The mattress of my twin bed creaks as I pull out the little wallet from beneath it. Enough to get you started, Père Simon had said, dropping it into my satchel. You’ll want to address yourself to Studios Gaumont in the 19th arrondissement. Ask for M. Feuillade.
When I tiptoe to the door and look back, there is a gleam underneath Camille’s eyelids.
‘You’re running away,’ she says.
Then she just looks at me: long and solemn like when she was small.