With an efficient swoop of a gloved hand, the steward disposes of Anthony’s plastic cup. The cabin prepares for landing. Out the window, the landscape transitions from ambiguous to recognizable. His hometown resembles a model train set in the dusty evening light. Roundabouts appear as crop circles, and arched bridges unfold across the flattened grid like stretching limbs. His body shudders as the aircraft rumbles forward. A wistful smile works across his face as the wheels make contact with tarmac.  Here we go again.  Anthony unpacks his luggage in room 428, an expansive suite. Standing by the oversized pane of glass, he takes in the spectacular view, which isn’t of the city’s distant mountains in the south, but the central atrium of The Compass Hotel. He meditates on the spiralling jungle of ferns, a mandala-like garden that pulls Anthony into a hypnotic lull.  Unable to face a restaurant full of people, Anthony runs his finger down the carefully curated room service menu. He orders the grazing platter and takes a shower. Hot jets massage his body as he elongates his torso. With forearms pressed flat into the tiled wall he hangs his head, letting the gushing water pound between his shoulder blades. Closing his eyes Anthony recalls his last visit home almost three years ago, where something inside him broke, went dark. Melancholia echoed through the bare trees that winter, sounding a death rattle in the wind.  Matthew, Anthony’s dearest friend called in May. In typical laconic fashion he delivered the news, ‘There’s a tumour in my brain, Ant. I’m a dead man.’ Matthew was robust and vital one minute and withering the next – a frail facsimile swimming in his hospital gown. By August he was gone. In the bitter cold of the hospital car park Anthony howled, his face stinging with tears.  A loud knock startles Anthony. Wrapping a robe around his wet body he answers the door.  ‘I didn’t think service would be so fast!’ Anthony waves the concierge into his room and points to a suitable place for the trolley. The name Nicolas is embossed on his badge. ‘Apologies, Mr Pearce. I can come back later if you’d prefer?’ ‘It’s no problem. Thank you, Nicolas.’ The immaculately groomed man nods and enters the room. ‘Are you visiting for the first time Mr Pearce?’ Anthony hesitates, unsure if he should remain honest or play the small-talk game. ‘Actually, I was born here. It’s been a few years since my last visit.’ He studies Nicholas’ face, admiring his opal eyes and pronounced lips, which curl and slump as if modelled from clay. His square chin is freshly shaven, but black stubble dots his jaw.  He’s unnervingly handsome, like this hotel room. ‘Welcome home, Mr Pearce! Is there anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable?’ Smiling, Anthony catches his reflection in the mirrored feature wall, realizing his robe is open. His torso, still wet from the shower, glistens in the lamplight. He tightens the cord around…