Donovan arrived two hours later. He looked fresh, probably having taken a shower and changed into casual clothes, so he must have stopped by his place. He greeted me with a friendly pat on the shoulder before going to talk to the girl, who was still on the couch. She looked at him.

"Hi, miss. I came here to see you."

She fidgeted with her fingers and blinked. Then she looked at the TV and then at him.

"Cartoons, huh? Nothing beats that, indeed. I watch some myself when I have free time."

I leave Donovan chatting with her as I head up to my room. It's large and spacious, with a double bed, wardrobe, and a small dresser. A door on the right wall leads to my personal bathroom, and beneath a desk is my notebook. That's where I go. I open a drawer and take out my wallet. Then I head back downstairs.

As I descend the stairs, I hear Donovan talking about the things he loves most about Brazil and his favorite tourist spots. I emerge in the living room and announce to both of them:

"I'm going to the market, I promise not to take long."

"We'll be fine," Donovan reassures me. The girl looks at me and nods.

Once at the market, I do the most comprehensive shopping I can. I don't just stick to groceries; I buy things she'll probably need, like sanitary pads and deodorant. I also purchase three jars of curly hair cream and a brush with thick bristles.

While strolling through the aisles, I decide to buy cleaning products as well. I make a large purchase, enough to last at least three months.

After going through the checkout and being helped by one of the staff to load the groceries into the trunk, I leave the supermarket parking lot and drive calmly back to the apartment.

Would she stay with me for another three months? Would she succumb before that? Would any friends or family be looking for her right now?

Where would she go once she recovered? Would she still keep in touch?

There were too many questions to be answered. And all I knew for sure was that I would never leave her alone again.

Once I arrived, the doorman helped me carry the groceries up to my floor. I thanked him and opened the door. Donovan came up to me. The girl was lying on the couch, staring into space again.

"Let me put away the groceries. Go talk to her."

"Is she okay?"

"She's just a bit distant. I've noticed she does that sometimes."

While my best friend takes care of the contents of the bags, I do as he asks. I sit on the arm of the couch and look at her.

"I bought everything we need. We'll be just fine."

She looks at me. I continue:

"I bought an excellent cream for your hair. And other things you might need every month. Tomorrow I'll do some online shopping and order more clothes for you."

She fidgets with her fingers and looks around. Then she gives one of those weak smiles again. I strongly resist the urge to hug her. Instead, I just smile back.

"I told you Donovan was a nice guy. I hope you see each other more often."

She looks at Donovan with some kind of glimmer I can't identify. Then she looks back at me.

"You're not alone."

The girl sighs and nods. The glimmer is also directed at me.

Suddenly, I feel a little embarrassed. I clear my throat and head to the kitchen to help Donovan with the rest of the things. As we organize, the girl closes her eyes and seems to be trying to take a nap.

"Where will she sleep tonight?" Donovan asks quietly.

"I was thinking. Since I don't want to leave her alone, I thought about sleeping on the couch again and putting her in the guest room like last time."

"That's a good idea. Just make sure to keep the bathroom locked."

"I think I'd hear if the showers were turned on."

"Maybe, but it's better not to take any risks."

"But what if she needs to use the bathroom during the night?"

"She'll come to your room and call you to go with her."

"I'm not sure if she'll like that..."

"What do you suggest, then?"

I didn't know. And I don't know if I could decide that on such short notice.

"I'll think of something."

"I know you will. But remember: we still need to stay very close. And when she's ready to tell us what happened, we have to stop everything to listen."

"I know that."

Then we start talking about other things, like my course. Sunday was coming, which meant I needed to teach my students. I recorded the content in video format and posted it on the website for subscribers, and by now, the material should already be ready. I needed to find a way to organize everything on time.

As important as that subject was, there was still a persistent red light flashing in my brain: the priority now was the girl's well-being, and I needed to resolve this obstacle before anything else.

Which meant: deciding where she would sleep.

. . .

Donovan stayed longer, helping me cook small portions of food and pre-cooking them. He said that was the best way to speed up meals without losing nutritional value and flavor. He also helped me tidy up the guest room, changing the sheets and putting in the new feminine items that would be there; creams, shampoo, conditioner, hairbrush, toothbrush, sanitary pads, and of course, clothes. The wardrobe was large enough to supply the quantity I planned to buy. And if anything, I could just buy another one.

"That looks very... feminine," he commented, as we paused to assess the final result.

I chuckle.

"Yeah, I guess it does."

"So... Have you decided she's going to stay for a while?"

The sentence sounds like a question, yet it also sounds like a statement. I put my hands in my pockets as I continue to observe the furniture.

"Yes. At least long enough for her to recover and tell us who she is."

"And what happened to her."

"That."

A brief pause. Donovan speaks again:

"You bought supplies for about three months, Gavin."

"I know. But I don't know how long it will take for her to recover. I just want to be prepared."

"But you didn't need to buy so much. I think this could be resolved in a few weeks, if that."

I turn to him.

"She lost her voice and has cuts all over her body."

"I know that, I was there with you and witnessed everything. But I was researching more about it earlier at work. Trauma-induced mutism tends to dissipate in two or three weeks. We don't know how long she's been silent. That's why we might have answers much sooner than we think."

"Fair enough. Let's start from there. She tells us who she is and what happened. What would be the correct approach to follow?"

"Looking for relatives and close friends?"

"I thought by now you would have realized."

"Realized what?"

"That she doesn't have any of those things."

"Believe me, I thought about it. But we