She tightly holds the cold sweat in her palms, so that the fear is not wasted and passes through her fingers, to stay there, in these hands that haven't felt that specific fear in years. Just as they haven't felt other things in years. Mainly, a caress. She feels her stomach drop down to her feet, stroll for a bit on her soles, heels, and ankles, and then, oops! it returns to its place. Her stomach, already distressed, empty for hours, sometimes days, over the past years, has only recently started accepting regular food, at normal times and in almost normal portions. Under her closed eyes, there are no images. Only a persistent blackness that she herself created by squeezing her eyelids tightly. A few seats behind, someone is speaking loudly. The message reaches her ears and travels to her brain, which, numb, concludes that one of their own must be—few, you see, are the passengers who do not belong to this group.

A laugh, then another, the darkness under her eyes more bleak as her eyelids tighten even more—how much strength can eyelids have?—, tightening in a desperate attempt to drown out the sounds, as if she hears with her eyes… A foreign female voice pretends unsuccessfully to scold the others, or at least those who shamelessly laugh loudly, and she, while realizing that her pulse is now more irregular, hears another voice, male this time, talking about sweets and rice dishes from Paradise. Then everyone—everyone? How can she know with her eyes closed?—, at least most of them, burst into laughter. The emptiness in her stomach grows larger as the laughter repeats, her diaphragm pressing on her heart, about to burst, to stop, to explode—she is so sure of it! Her hands tremble coldly, and finally, sweat runs down between her clenched fingers. Panic. A very dignified panic attack.