I hid in a poky attic in Florida, with a skylight that wouldn’t close. The eagle that had once pecked Prometheus’ liver occasionally swooped in to eat my dinner.
The attic also had an unlocked side hatch which allowed me to spy on a next-door neighbour reading “The Diary of a Young Girl” in his courtyard.
The attic’s bedding was old, as were the Time magazines and “Snakes and Ladders” left behind by previous occupants. Given time, I could make that hideaway work. Silence, prudence and perseverance were key. My family lived in El Salvador and were counting on me.