DIY Ink

The night market was bright enough to make everyone look like a better version of themselves. The stalls glowed with strings of lights, the air smelled like grilled sardines and cheap perfume, and the tattoo artist Leni had wanted to visit was a handwritten sign that said CLOSED, the O curling like a goodbye. Leni took a photo of the sign anyway. She had made a promise in Budapest that she would collect something permanent in each city. The first had been a delicate line-work whale, the second a ramen bowl after a terrible meal in Bangkok she insisted had been "authentic."

Priya, who had been a nurse before she built a life out of Wi-Fi, warned her about infections and sterile equipment. Leni nodded, smiling the way you smile at flight attendants explaining seatbelts. Casper had already found a stall selling ink bottles and "tattoo kits" wrapped in plastic, which looked legitimate enough in the green glow of a streetlight. "It's just like drawing," he said. "We can do it in the dorm. Everyone will sign it."

Back at Ink & Tonic Hostel, the common room was a collage of string lights and stale beer. Leni taped a mirror to her bunk and laid out her supplies on a folded towel. The needle was too thick, the ink too thin, and the only cleaning method was a splash of vodka because Casper said it was basically the same as antiseptic. Priya rolled her eyes and went to bed, telling herself she couldn't protect everyone from themselves.

The swallow looked a little crooked, but Leni liked that. She liked that it didn't belong to anyone else's Instagram. It burned and then it burned more, the sting pulsing even after she rinsed it in the sink. She posted a close-up to her story with a caption: "Lisbon knows." The first reply was a heart from her sister. The second was a comment from @HostelReaper: "Ink carries more than stories." She ignored it the way she ignored the advice about street food, the way she had ignored the coughs in the dorm after "Stall Warning" had been a headline in the hostel's review section.

The fever arrived two days later, disguised as a hangover. Leni took ibuprofen and went on a walking tour. The heat in her ankle felt like a private sunset. She told herself it would pass. She told herself the redness was just sunburn, the swelling just travel bloat. Andre, the manager, suggested she drink electrolytes and keep dancing so the hostel wouldn't get a bad vibe. There was a rooftop DJ set that night and Leni didn't want to miss it.

By midnight she was shivering in a city that never dipped below twenty degrees. The tattoo had become a bruise, then a bruise with a pulse. Priya found her on the bathroom floor, shaking so hard her teeth clicked. The ankle was hot, the skin tight and shiny, the swallow swallowed by darkness. Priya wanted to call an ambulance. Andre wanted to call a taxi. Casper wanted to film a "night nurse" joke. Leni wanted to sleep.

She slept anyway, curled on the thin mattress in the four-bed dorm, the air conditioner blowing directly on her feet. In the morning she couldn't stand. Her words slurred. The hostel had a plaque with "We are family" by the front desk, but families knew their hospital routes, and this one knew the review sites. By the time they carried her down the stairs, Leni's eyes were unfocused, her pulse a frantic bird in her throat.

The taxi driver kept glancing at her in the rearview mirror. The fever tried to carve her name out of her, and the infection did the rest. In the emergency room, Priya watched the nurses cut away the sock, revealing the tattoo that had bled into something unrecognizable. It looked like a bruise, a map, a warning she had been too busy living to read.

Later, a post appeared on the hostel's wall advertising a professional tattoo studio down the street. The comments were full of skull emojis and someone posted, "Remember Leni." @HostelReaper replied with a final line: "Permanent doesn't mean safe."