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I’m about to answer when, all at once, the pressure releases, like water breaching a dam, and something seals into place, right beneath my breastbone.

With it comes pain. I lock my knees to keep from falling as a sharp, throbbing sensation blooms in my left shoulder.

Est iwapagu sinavakap metum…?1

I sway a little at the sound of a young, masculine voice speaking in a foreign language. It is like nothing I’ve heard before. And yet it’s so close, almost as though it’s coming from inside my own?—

Logu suwwas iv’taburwa.?2

My gaze sweeps over our apartment, taking in the table; Livia’s agitated face; the chipped green walls; the long shelf that holds our pitchers, bowls, and cups; the massive loom leaning against a back wall; and, on either side of it, the baskets filled with fabric, yarn, beads, and tailored garments.

There are many things in this apartment, but a young man is not among them.

“Girl,” Livia says, her voice a little more demanding, her face a little more annoyed, “pull yourself together.”

I try to breathe around the strange sensations flowing through me—pain, alarm, determination.

“Just feeling faint…”

Iv’tassa e’waditvak singatasava. Lusavasa guxip ewwatavak metum…?3

I place a hand to my head at the return of the young male’s voice. It’s definitely coming from inside me, but that only makes the situation more distressing.

Beneath the words themselves, there’s desperation and exhilaration andpain—my shoulder continues to throb.

Pain that eclipses my own.

“Here.” Livia moves to the shelf and grabs a pitcher and cup from it. She pours me a glass of watered-down wine. “Drink this and get yourself together,” she insists, pressing the cup into my hands. Despite her abrasive tone, I think she’s genuinely worried about me. At least, until she adds, “I don’t want you to embarrass me in front of the senator’s wife.”

My hand shakes as I take a sip, trying to steady myself.

I’snut ivwagu ruvwavu bovotavak…?4

The wine sours in my mouth, and I set the cup down on the table shakily. Whatever is happening, I’m not fine, and liquid won’t help.

“I’ll—I’ll go fix my hair,” I mumble.

Before Livia can respond, I stumble to my room. The space is small yet sparse, adorned with a stool, a shelf, a bed, and a couple of baskets holding my clothes and more garments to sew and mend.

Hastily, I place the veil I still clutch into one of them and then I collapse onto my thin mattress. Half of me expects Livia to follow me in and scold me again for laziness, but instead I hear her move about the living area, then leave our apartment.

I exhale—one less thing to worry about.

My shoulder still aches from that phantom pain, and my stomach churns from wine, and…and…

Si’nap sunwatud wi’va’ta dotzakummu etavaku inpuburpusa.?5

I press my palms to my eye sockets.

Shut up, I tell the voice.

I know there are people who hear voices—is this what they deal with? This is awful.

Lasa otvas do si’n! Pesa govak pusanutapsa susazakunam wek i’nagatvup, vakosazakunam wek wovubga.?6

Shut up!I say louder, beginning to panic.

What happens if the voice doesn’t go away? What if this is my life now?