No Wesley! Not Paco. Not Paco. Not Paco. The plaster wall next to the loft bed said not Paco. The cramped space between his matrass and the ceiling whispered not Paco. His breath, quickened by nightmares he’d forgotten, begged not Paco. The memory of an infuriated Wesley emerged in front of the wall. “Yes, just like you were! Paco wants me to rape him. He’s begging for it.” Despite the fact that Wesley spoke English instead of Dutch, because Paco was there, and despite the fact that there was not an ounce of regret in Wesley’s aggressive attitude, Lars was relieved that his secret was out. Rape. It even had a name. A name spoken out loud in the kitchen of the old student house, heard by him, by Wesley, and by Paco, who was sitting on the kitchen bench in a high closed red dress with cut sleeves. With his sculpted lean arms he was a striking Michelle Obama imitation. [...]