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"Are you still up? Paille? It must be close on three." Alain Baundilet was sitting on a sack of grain toward the aft of the dhow, his features unreadable in the light of the waning moon.
Jean-Marc Paille started at the unexpected words, then did his best to appear calm. "I didn't see you there," he said.
"Small wonder," Baundilet sighed. "There's another sack, a little way along the deck, if you want it." He took his huge linen handkerchief and swabbed at the back of his neck. "I can't sleep when it's like this, so hot and still."
"It's like suffocating," said Jean-Marc,