Just before midnight, the old man’s hand on my shoulder jolts me from a deep sleep. “Helena,” he croaks, “there’s dust everywhere.” My hands grasping the sides of my mattress, I blink and try to make sense of what is happening. The old man is in my bedroom. My door is open, and yellow light from the hallway is streaming in. Behind me, it is dark. “It’s the middle of the night,” I moan, more to orientate myself than to make him see reason. “Why are you up this late?” “Because