and waited for Harlow, who stepped lightly on the pavement trying to avoid pressing down too hard on her throbbing ankle. Christian came around the front of the old green car to their side. Looking down at her feet, “You'll never make it.”
She pretended that it didn't hurt. “Where is it?” Harlow asked.
“Up there,” he nodded towards the top of the hill.
“Seriously, then why did you park all the way down here?” Sophia asked in irritation.
“The road is closed,” he replied, pointing to the yellow plastic barricades and the Men at Work sign a few metres ahead, cordoning off the entryway up the hill. “I don't know of a faster way to get there, do you?”
Sophia grimaced, turning away from him, and stomped haughtily up the hill. She couldn't understand him.
“Shall I carry you?” Christian asked Harlow jokingly, his eyes on Sophia's retreating back.
“It's okay, I can make it,” she began to limp forward making the off-white bedraggled angel's wings shake.
He crouched down.
“I feel fine.”
“Come on, piggyback.”
She climbed on, wrapping her arms securely around his neck as he stood up to his full six feet. She winced in pain when he hooked his arms under her thighs to secure her, inadvertently agitating the swollen ankle. They slowly navigated the crooked pavements going up the hill and found Sophia sitting on a low wall that circumvented the garden of a large house. She jumped down and began walking with them.
“There you are,” he said with a wry grin.
She smiled faintly then looked away.
“Harlow?” he asked.
“Yeah?”
“Just checking you're awake. Did I ever tell you the story of the girl who fell in love with love?”
“What?” she laughed, “no.”
“Good,” he continued, “Sophia, have you heard this one?”
“How far is it?” Sophia asked in reply.
“Not far,” he told her, “just up the hill.”
“Tell me,” Harlow said.
“Well, in Cartagena some time ago, there was a girl called Elle. She grew up in a rich household and when she was little she often played with her cousins, running down the maze of cobbled streets, in and out of the crowds that walked there, dodging the horses that pulled the fancy white carriages along the streets. On the weekends, during the long hot days, she would sit outside her aunt's bakery singing and playing on her guitar, her hair fluttering behind her in the warm breeze. A passing merchant heard her singing on the wind, her voice like an angel’s carried to him by a swift gust. He followed the voice until he found the sixteen-year-old girl sitting by an old woman on a thin wicker chair outside a café. The Merchant talked to the aunt and told her that he was producing a show in the neighbouring city of Medellín. They needed a singer and he was convinced that she was a star. After days of discussions, Elle's father and mother travelled to Medellín with her to begin filming. The show was a hit. Within months, Elle's face was the most well known in Colombia. By the time she was seventeen, she had become involved with a powerful drug baron.
“This doesn't sound like a very happy story,” Harlow interrupted.
“It is,” he insisted as they neared the top of the hill and the neon lights of the hospital shone in the distance like
She pretended that it didn't hurt. “Where is it?” Harlow asked.
“Up there,” he nodded towards the top of the hill.
“Seriously, then why did you park all the way down here?” Sophia asked in irritation.
“The road is closed,” he replied, pointing to the yellow plastic barricades and the Men at Work sign a few metres ahead, cordoning off the entryway up the hill. “I don't know of a faster way to get there, do you?”
Sophia grimaced, turning away from him, and stomped haughtily up the hill. She couldn't understand him.
“Shall I carry you?” Christian asked Harlow jokingly, his eyes on Sophia's retreating back.
“It's okay, I can make it,” she began to limp forward making the off-white bedraggled angel's wings shake.
He crouched down.
“I feel fine.”
“Come on, piggyback.”
She climbed on, wrapping her arms securely around his neck as he stood up to his full six feet. She winced in pain when he hooked his arms under her thighs to secure her, inadvertently agitating the swollen ankle. They slowly navigated the crooked pavements going up the hill and found Sophia sitting on a low wall that circumvented the garden of a large house. She jumped down and began walking with them.
“There you are,” he said with a wry grin.
She smiled faintly then looked away.
“Harlow?” he asked.
“Yeah?”
“Just checking you're awake. Did I ever tell you the story of the girl who fell in love with love?”
“What?” she laughed, “no.”
“Good,” he continued, “Sophia, have you heard this one?”
“How far is it?” Sophia asked in reply.
“Not far,” he told her, “just up the hill.”
“Tell me,” Harlow said.
“Well, in Cartagena some time ago, there was a girl called Elle. She grew up in a rich household and when she was little she often played with her cousins, running down the maze of cobbled streets, in and out of the crowds that walked there, dodging the horses that pulled the fancy white carriages along the streets. On the weekends, during the long hot days, she would sit outside her aunt's bakery singing and playing on her guitar, her hair fluttering behind her in the warm breeze. A passing merchant heard her singing on the wind, her voice like an angel’s carried to him by a swift gust. He followed the voice until he found the sixteen-year-old girl sitting by an old woman on a thin wicker chair outside a café. The Merchant talked to the aunt and told her that he was producing a show in the neighbouring city of Medellín. They needed a singer and he was convinced that she was a star. After days of discussions, Elle's father and mother travelled to Medellín with her to begin filming. The show was a hit. Within months, Elle's face was the most well known in Colombia. By the time she was seventeen, she had become involved with a powerful drug baron.
“This doesn't sound like a very happy story,” Harlow interrupted.
“It is,” he insisted as they neared the top of the hill and the neon lights of the hospital shone in the distance like
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