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The flat where applicants are hosted is old and cavernous. The windows rattle noisily every time a car drives by, or when a person walks down the hallway, or when someone’s heart beats—constantly, in other words. It is a terrible place to be hungover.
Every morning I wake up with two or three new bug bites. The jury is still out on the mosquitoes-or-spiders debate, but this morning’s bites straddle my Achilles tendons. I don’t know any mosquitoes that can bite through an inch thick comforter.
