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The young man scrabbles to his feet.The crystal glasses are filled with champagne again.The music can once more be heard.Can you believe he did it? says Tatiana after he’s run off to fetch a broom.And it’s not that she doesn’t like Tatiana, she does.All the windows are dark.She looks at the message Darrell sent her.She can smell formaldehyde.Another corridor, and there’s a metal door with a round handle.Light is seeping in around the frame.She turns the handle.She’s going to bring this ceiling down on them.Just look at what she’s doing.But she’s not going to die here.She does a backward crawl toward the door, keeping low, keeping her eye on them.At the door, she finds her shoes and pulls them on with a little sob of relief.She topples out the door, hamstrings taut, body singing with adrenaline.In the courtyard, the car is gone.But, limping, she runs out into the forest.TundeThere is a man with a mouthful of glass.There is a thin, sharp, translucent sliver spearing the back of his throat, shiny with saliva and mucus, and his friend is trying to extract it with trembling fingers.He shines a light with his phone torch to see where it is exactly, and reaches in while the man retches and tries to hold still.He has to go in for it three times, until he grasps it, pulls it out between thumb and forefinger.It is two inches long.It is stained with blood and meat, a lump of the man’s throat on the end of it.The friend puts it onto a clean, white napkin.Tunde photographs the eight shards lined up on the napkin.He’d taken photographs while the obscenity was happening at the party, his camera casual and low at his hip, seeming to dangle from his hand.No, he can’t go anywhere else.He wipes the blood from his mouth as he speaks.He says quietly, Is my fault, must not speak when the President is speaking.He’s crying a little now, from the shock and the shame and the fear and the humiliation and the pain.At first we did not speak our hurt because it was not manly.Now we do not speak it because we are afraid and ashamed and alone without hope, each of us alone.It is hard to know when the first became the second.The waiter, whose name is Peter, writes some words on a scrap of paper.He gives it to Tunde and holds his hand clasped over Tunde’s fist.He looks into his eyes until Tunde thinks that the man is about to kiss him.Tunde suspects he would allow it because each of these people needs some comfort.The waiter says, Don’t go.Tunde says, I can stay as long as you like.She is going to try to make the press leave the country.Please.