The kitchen is separated from the hallway by a bead curtain, strands of copper-coloured yarn knotted around a jumble of tiny bric-a-brac fragments: washers, curtain rings and bits of valve. She touches it. Cool and heavy. She will not be able to pass through the curtain without making a noise, so she doesn’t try. It’s empty, anyway. She drops her shoulders, listening, but does not close her eyes. It is a delusion of those unaccustomed to using their senses that the focus of one requires the abdication of another. In fact, the senses are complementary, each feeding the rest. It’s harder to hear someone if you cannot see their lips, harder to tell the difference between coldness and wetness if you cannot use your nose.