“SHE WON’T GET out of bed,” Fatima said to me worriedly, in French. I was a month into a trip through Morocco, and Fatima had picked me up in a train station and brought me home along with a few other backpackers. Carmen, the girl in bed, had been there for a month.
Carmen was fine when she arrived from the bus stop like the rest of us, but after a week at Fatima’s, she stopped going out as much. Then she stopped going out at all. She stayed inside the house, then inside her room, and finally, in her bed.
Nobody had spoken to her, although several people tried. First she was there, and then she wasn’t, like she’d been kidnapped out from behind her own eyes without anyone noticing.