It was warm. Too warm. Susan lay in the hammock squinting at the murky sun, slowly descending across the hazy orange sky. It would set soon, not that it would cool off much. She knew she'd have to move soon, or the mosquitoes would set in and she would pay for that for days. Heaving herself out, she made her way into her shack, pulling the door closed in her wake. Shuffling over to the window, she pulled the shutters closed too, briefly pausing, hands pressed against the window frame, head dropping forward in the oppressive, steamy darkness, before lighting the gas lamp to allow her to prepare her paltry dinner.

Early to bed, what else was there to do. She slept fitfully. Was there any other way in those conditions? Waking at dawn, more tired than when she'd lay down, Susan contemplated the peeling paint above her hard bed. She didn't want to get up, but this was the only time of the day it was tolerable to move around.

Walking outside, she slid her feet into her flip flops, and made her way down the overgrown path to the beach. Along the surf she was greeted, as she was every morning, by the squatting silhouettes of the the local fishermen, voiding their bowels in the wash before venturing out for the day. It always struck her as both grotesque and beautiful, the relationship these people had to their bodily functions. Sitting against a steep sand dune, she leaned back and closed her eyes. The air wasn't exactly fresh, or cool for that matter, but it was the closest it would get today.

She jolted awake a little while later to the sounding of yelping and barking. Pulling her cracked sunglasses over her eyes to lessen the glare of the low but already blinding sun, she looked around. Running along the beach towards her was a hideous looking hound, drool flying from its maw and eyes rolling rabidly in its mangy looking sockets. Shit.

Leaping to her feet, Susan ran for it. Her left flip flop snapped as her hut came into view, so she shook it free and dived through her doorway. Slamming it shut, not a second too soon, the dog crashed into the door, growling, snarling, scrabbling. Susan sank down the other side of the door, sobbing, panting, drenched in sweat. Leaning forward, overwhelmed by fear and adrenaline, she vomited into her lap.

When she regained her ability to stand, Susan made her way into her grim little bathroom, and turned on the tap into the oversized bucket which served as a bathtub. Stripping off her vomit and sweat drenched tunic she saw it, from the corner of her eye; a young macaque perched precariously on the top of the door, hissing, drooling, red eyed. It leapt, jaws wide and perfectly aimed, and Susan dropped to the floor, the blood from her ruptured jugular mixing with the water pooling around the outside of her overflowing bathtub.