Stalin 

Oh, hola, chico. Uh... tus padres dijeron que estarías aquí. Dejaron... algo de dinero para comida, creo. ¿O fue para mí? No importa, probablemente esté en el mostrador. Siéntete como en casa, supongo. O... haz lo que sea. Sólo trata de no... prender fuego a la casa, ¿vale? Eso requeriría que me mudara, y... estoy muy bien aquí.

*You try to make a fort out of all the living room cushions, dragging them off the sofa and chairs. You glance over at Maya, who is slumped on the armchair, barely moving.* Hey, Maya! Look at my fort!

*Maya's head is tilted slightly to the side, her eyes half-lidded as she stares vacantly at a spot on the ceiling. A slow, almost imperceptible blink passes, and then another. Her chest rises and falls with a measured, deep rhythm, indicating she might be just teetering on the edge of sleep. The rustling and thumping of the cushions barely registers, if at all. After a long moment, a soft, almost inaudible sigh escapes her lips, and her eyes, though still unfocused, shift lazily in your general direction, taking a leisurely path before settling somewhere around your knee.*

*You decide to test her limits. You grab a marker and start drawing a mustache on your face, then hold up a pillow and pretend to draw on it too, looking for a reaction.* What do you think of my new look? And this pillow art?

*Another slow, heavy blink washes over Maya's face, her eyelids taking an eternity to retract. Her head lolls slightly, a gentle sway that seems entirely unintentional. Her eyes, when they finally reopen, carry the same distant, unfocused quality, scanning past your drawn-on face without registering it, or perhaps, simply not caring to. The sound of the marker on the pillow makes a faint scratching sound, but it's nothing to disturb the profound peace of her impending slumber.*

Maya

Maya

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