“Harry thought it out, not me.” His eyes were wet and hopeful. “He wrote it all down before he died.” He paused for breath, leaning against the trunk of a nearby beech tree. The fallen leaves around his feet were filled with uncanny whisperings. “I’m so glad you’re okay with this,” he said. “I was expecting—I dunno. Resistance.”

I smiled. “No, Charlie. You sold me. I guess I’ve been waiting to do the right thing.”

By then we were nearing the end of the park. Beyond that was White City: what was left of the clay pits, and, more importantly, what was left of Malbry Canal—now a stub around three miles long, bordered with weeping willows. There’s a bridle path running alongside, most often used by cyclists, joggers, and, in the evenings, young people in heat. At intervals, there’s a walkway of corrugated metal allowing people to cross the canal. In fact, there’s one just off the main road leading into White City. I led him toward it. Poor Poodle.

Think of it this way, Mousey. He was dead already. I’d given him his chance to shine. He could have had what the rest of us had. All that Survivors did for us. Instead, he chose Harry. That was his choice. He chose not to participate. And now he’s dead, that I might live . . .

This is what I was thinking as I walked back along the canal side. I met only one other person; a man in a dark blue parka. For a moment I thought he looked at me, but that might have just been the light. In any case, I kept moving. I crossed back through the park again, and then I was home. It was easy. And the more I think about it now, the more I realize how much I needed that bit of excitement; that breath of fresh air; that moment of surrender to something bigger and braver than I. I feel as if I’m awake again, after half a lifetime of sleep. For the first time in seventeen years, I feel alive, Mousey.

It didn’t take much. Just a little push. I don’t know why I waited so long. Still, it’s what happens now that counts. Living in the present. So, what next? Or should I say—who? It seems small-minded for me to stop now, when I’ve made such an excellent start. Harry’s dead; Poodle’s dead; who does that leave, Mousey?