Dusk is descending upon it like a kindness. The air in the garden is achingly mild, as though immune to the late year’s weather. Nor is there sign of any rain in the air. For a moment Logan wonders if there might be a roof, but the warbling melody of a thrush suggests otherwise. If the space is protected from December’s excesses, it is through some fluke or connivance of ventilation.

The garden’s trees are sturdy-trunked specimens with generous canopies, as though the glass walls of the Centre were constructed around a pre-existing copse. Yet the space is undoubtedly only an imitation of nature: three silver birch, a substantial lilac and an unclipped laurel are arranged in a premeditated fashion. A mannerly path takes Logan to a bench by a soft-fountained water feature, and here he sits to watch the black water burbling, before tipping his head back to see dark clouds boil over the building’s edge.

Commotion in the laurel bush, and a sneeze of sparrows tumbles out of it, reconfigures itself, and hops back in. The bickering continues until the bush has emptied and refilled twice more. After that, with only the thrush song to embroider a failing light, the garden holds an intoxicating peace. I could just stay here, thinks Logan, as the darkness envelops him. But he is disturbed.

A door, somewhere behind him, makes the smallest complaint to announce Someone Else in the garden. Logan’s first instinct is to get up and return indoors, but his second is to wait, territorially, and claim this space for himself. Let the other person feel uncomfortable. Even though it is Logan who is measuring his breath, gauging whether his presence is detected. Feet along the path, and all paths converge at this bench.

A beautiful evening, says the stranger, gazing up at the square of near-night.

Hmmm, says Logan.

The stranger says nothing more, but sighs. And sighs again, this time shaking his head. As though there is a great deal of thought in him that entails the releasing of steam. As the end of the work day approaches, the movement around the building is enough to light all the corridors, and it is this light bleeding into the garden that allows Logan to see the trail of a tear on the man’s face.

Are you okay? he asks.

Yes, says the man. More than okay. I am… I hardly dare say it. He nods at the bench. Do you mind?

Not at all, says Logan, who thinks he might mind extremely, but nevertheless scoots up to accommodate him.

They sit in silence for a few minutes. The silence itches Logan. He has half a mind to give up and go in, but is reluctant to surrender the peace of the garden to this interloper.

You work here? he asks.

Yes, says the man. I’m a cell biologist. You?

Just visiting, says Logan.