"Do you remember when we went outside?" I ask, breaking the looming silence that once again grows. That was the happiest I've ever seen her. My chest feels tight with the atmosphere in the room, and I'm growing sick of seeing Camila simply sitting there, locked away in her own mind.

Her brows twitch inwards but she quickly retains her void expression. "Of course."

"Can you do me a favor and just imagine that?"

She snorts and tips her head back almost painfully far.

"Just try it. It might help."

Instead of complying, she lifts her head and looks over at me, a strange, mad sort of enthusiasm flaring within her. "If you could kill anyone, who would it be?"

"Camila—"

"Oh, shut up. There's someone for everyone, even normal people. Doesn't mean you have to do it."

I sigh and look down to the table. The answer is clear in my mind, and I see no real harm in sharing, so I respond simply, "Trump."

She laughs softly, nodding. "God, he's such an asshole. Good choice. Me, I'd choose that son-of-a-bitch Hartley." Her face breaks into a twisted, twitching smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd take her down to the basement and I'd do to her everything they did to me, just to watch her fall from her throne. Show her who really has all the power. She'd break. Then I'd show her some mercy and kill her." Her smile grows, forcing flashing memories of blood-stained teeth into the forefront of my mind. I don't think I'll ever get over that image, especially now that I've seen just how much damage was done that day. "Feed her to Pablo's dogs; they're always hungry."

I clear my throat, almost flinching when her eyes, which had drifted during her monologue, flick back to mine. "You wouldn't actually do that."

She grits her teeth. "I would."

"But her death would lead straight to yours, you know that. I'm not letting you die, remember?"

She rolls her eyes. "You think I'm an idiot? I know how to get away with shit. That's all I do know. The only reason I'm here is because I was drunk and I'm never drinking again."

"Right," I mimic her gesture, "because nobody would ever suspect the convicted criminal who has attacked the woman in the past, and who has some sort of ongoing rivalry with her."

Her nostrils flare but she looks down.

I nod slightly, acknowledging that I know I've gotten through to her, and repeat, "Now, imagine you're outside." I wait for her eyes to reluctantly close. "Think of a happy place. Somewhere you can be yourself without concern. Somewhere you can retreat to whenever you—"

"Stop." Her eyes reopen, and I notice a small tear trailing down her temple even as she turns her head to hide it. "That doesn't work for me."

"Because you're not trying—"

"Shut the fuck up, Lauren. Please." She takes a breath splays her hands. "Every time I close my eyes I go back there, whether I want to or not. I can't even sleep without going back, I fucking told you that."

She's still acting tough with her curse words and raised voice, but I can sense that she has started to change, started to head back to the other side of her, the side that hurts a little more but the side that sometimes allows herself a smile, allows herself to be vulnerable. I press on.

"Then try with your eyes open."

She furrows her brows, glaring down at the table with her chin jutted out. She almost looks like a sulking child about to throw a tantrum. My next words slide out on a sigh.

"Come on, Hermosa, please."

The moment the unplanned nickname leaves my lips, she looks up, lips parted as her jaw quivers, eyes wide. Before I can apologize, her mouth curls up at one end. "Okay," she whispers. Seeming hopeful, she folds her hands together and takes a deep breath. "Try again."

Relief fills my body at her response. For a second there, I thought I'd upset her further, stepped over some kind of barrier, but it feels good to be the one to start something this time, having let her lead the way for so long.

As I talk her through the process, I notice that one of her hands begins to rock back and forth as her fingertips follow a horizontal figure 8. Her eyes trace the same shape and soon begin to drift closed. I smile slightly when she allows herself to relax, and I can tell she's now fully immersed in whichever location she's remembered or created. Step by step, I invite her to include each of her senses until I finally reach that of scent, when she frowns and looks up at me.

"I don't know what it smells like." She worries her bottom lip with her teeth, and I suck in a silent breath.

"Well, it can be anything you want. It's your happy place."

She hums thoughtfully, closes her eyes and twitches her nose, and flutters them open once more. A deep crease forms between her eyebrows as she looks over at my hands. "What does the beach smell like?"

"The beach?"

She nods, shrugging. "I've never been, so it's fresh. It always looks so pretty so I thought, y'know... I picked another smell, but what does it actually smell like? It's probably not like bananas, right?"

I can't help but chuckle, despite the sort of sadness that forms at the fact that she's lived in Cuba and Miami and has never been to the beach. The beach was a prevalent part of my upbringing; my parents would take my siblings and me down to the coast almost every week and even more frequently during summer vacation. We spent many an evening lounging on the sand, playing in the shallows, or dancing together in the slowly fading light of the sunset. Just like the sun, the beach is yet another indispensable experience stolen from her. "Unless bananas are salty, no," I respond, causing her to scrunch her nose and shake her head. Then, without really thinking, I say, "When you get out of here, I'll take you to the beach."

The light in her eyes sparks, then fades. Even as she says, "I'd love that," her despair is evident in her monotone voice. I reach over for her hand, drawing soft circles on the back of her palm. She sighs softly and closes her eyes once more. "Bananas smell nicer anyway."