Vivian and I run through the marketplace searching for fruit. We wear long skirts we hike up, fists full of cheap cotton. In Fez they call us the little Quebecois girls and no one bothers us at the entrance to the medina.

The ones we like best tastes like apple-bananas – they have rows of big dark seeds. We gather these in our mouths, six or seven seeds at a time until our mouths are full of them like smooth rocks. And we spit them hard at the ground and Mohamed, who sells us felt boots, laughs at us, girls full of seeds, skirts up and spitting. We eat the fruit off the end of a swiss army knife fearless, aching, like we’ve hunted and killed something much more substantial than fruit from a market stall.