I'm not sure what that thing is when you meet someone whose spirit is being keelhauled. Like I gave him a lift, but turned around in the car to watch what he was doing with his hands. Or, when he came in for supervision I checked his visible skin for tracks. And when I saw them at last wondered who I should tell. I am a witness, who would like my report? This is the eighth unwritten notebook, and not yet the ugliest. Young boys in the corner of the public spa, huddled together over a plastic bag. Beggars who came home and stashed their signs in the kitchen, then went upstairs for the deal. A woman asleep face down under the feijoa tree. A woman six months pregnant with scarcely a bump. A woman with florid movements. A dropped note in the hall: They are watching me, be careful, they are watching you too. But I am a witness, who should I tell? Is there somewhere to hand in this note?