All sexed up and nowhere to go.
February 17th 2007 We’ve taken the bus to Hurghada and the ferry to Sharm el-Sheikh and a minibus to Dahab that deposits us in the flowery courtyard of our hotel. Only then does it dawn on Paul that he’s deathly ill. There’ve been discouraging signs for the past few days: the high fever, the night chills, the fact that he’s spent so much time in the bathroom I suspect he’s cutting tiles and laying grout.
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