I booked some overdue leave. I had no trouble getting it through my line manager, or even through the Nazi killer robots who ran Human Resources. But I saw the way their gazes slid away from me as I handed over the forms and explained my vague plans. My days at Hyf were numbered. To hell with it.

I drove north, listening to news radio all the way. Along with the sports and the useless traffic bulletins, the main topic of the day was undoubtedly the Kuiper Anomaly. Absorbed with my own affairs, I just hadn’t noticed the way this thing had continued to mushroom in the public consciousness.

Reaching Manchester at around ten that evening, I drove to the city center, to the hotel I’d stayed in before. I actually parked the car. But I didn’t get out. I remembered what Vivian had said: reconnect. I shouldn’t be here.

I turned the car around and drove out to the suburbs. I canceled my hotel reservation with my cell phone.

There was a real estate agent’s sign outside my father’s house. I hesitated to disturb Peter, but when I knocked on his door he was awake—I heard the hum of PC cooling fans; perhaps he was working—and he was happy enough to give me a key. I let myself into Dad’s house. Inside it was warm and clean, but of course it was stripped of furniture; somehow I hadn’t been able to imagine it this way. There were pale patches on the wallpaper where furniture had stood for years. Empty or not it still managed to smell musty.

To my chagrin I finished up knocking on Peter’s door again. I borrowed a sleeping bag, pillow, and flask of tea. I spent the night on the thick carpet of my old bedroom. Lulled by the sound of distant trains passing in the night, immersed in a familiar ambience, I slept as well as I had in years.

In the morning, around eight, Peter showed up. It was a bright, fresh morning, the sky a deep blue. He brought soap, towels, a glass of orange juice, and an invitation to come over for breakfast. I accepted, but I promised myself I’d get to the shops and stock up as soon as I’d eaten.

Set on the other side of the road, Peter’s house was a mirror image of my father’s, the staircase and rooms eerily transposed from left to right. I went in there with some trepidation: this was the domain of Peter the solitary weirdo, after all. Well, it was plainly decorated, so far as I could see, with bland pastel paint hiding old wallpaper. The furniture looked a little old, and certainly wasn’t modish, but it wasn’t shabby. There were bookcases everywhere, even in the hall. The books seemed neatly ordered, but not obsessively so.