“I’ve learned to be very careful about language. Some words are dangerous for them.” “Like what?” I ask idly, imagining those rusty hacksaws buried deep in the collective reptile brain: Bitch. Nigger. Cunt. She is pale and pretty, with a heart-shaped face and four children at home. “Oh, like stream,” she answers, blinking. “Some of these women are locked up for life. They’re never going to see a stream again.” We breathe together then, and the green word exhales its mist in the air between us, moss-soft, rich with ferns, slippery, life-giving.