The Female of the Species. Lionel Shriver

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      There was more silence; the fire popped. Errol was beginning to feel something he’d never felt before. Terror.

      “I’ve been traveling for two days,” said Raphael. He threw the skin of his banana into the fire and watched it sizzle. “I’m tired.”

      Gray led Raphael to the hut where she and Errol were staying. Errol trailed after them.

      “That’s my mat,” Errol mumbled when Gray showed the new assistant where to sleep. Gray didn’t seem to hear. “That’s my pillow,” he said more loudly as Raphael unrolled his sleeping bag.

      “You can live without it for the night,” said Gray quietly. “He hasn’t slept in days.” She whispered good night and walked softly out of the hut, pulling Errol with her, as if leaving a sleeping child.

      They ambled back toward the fire. “You didn’t introduce me,” said Errol after a time.

      “Sorry,” said Gray, not paying the slightest attention.

      They sat down on the warm stones before the bonfire, and though she’d been in bed only an hour before, “absolutely disgusted and tired and stupid,” Gray’s eyes were alive now, and she sat on the edge of the stone rubbing her hands together. “You know, I’m getting a lot of ideas for this film,” she said. “It could be exciting.”