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Íñigo woke close to midday with the sun in his eyes and the sheet wrapped round his neck like a noose. As he swung his legs over the side of the bed he felt his guts turn. Bent double he stared at the black hairs on his toes, waiting for the nausea to pass. Halfway down the hall he found an upturned washing basket and figured Águeda must be trying to break his neck. “Keep trying, mammasita, keep trying,” he said, stepping over the basket.