Later, in the dimness of a single candle, Mitch lies in my arms, her face resting against mine, scented of our lovemaking, and a little of the mint tea she often drinks.
She traces a finger over my chest. "Where did you get all your scars?"
"Oh, here and there. Mainly there."
"How about this one?" She draws a fingernail over a six-inch white pucker which cuts across my ribs.
"That one? Knife wound. Corrupt customs official at the Tanzanian border. Changed his mind about how big a bribe he wanted."
"It looks as though it was painful."
"Could have been worse. It slashed over my ribs instead of going through."
"What were you taking across the borders?"
"You know what I was taking, Mitch. I was a trafficker. I've left it behind. Is this something you want to talk about?"
"But you miss
