Efa noticed the tightening in her stomach she always seemed to feel upon seeing the small windswept cottage. She pulled up, took a box from the back seat and carried it to the door. It was getting dark and the waves were echoing noisily below in the cove. She noticed that the tiles had been replaced on the roof, that the door of the lean-to was closed. She left the box of food on the bench as usual, before walking towards the door, fighting the urge to look in through the windows. She knocked and waited. Studied her cold knuckles. The way the skin was dry there, her hands being in and out of water all the time. She knocked again. No answer. Efa’s disappointment was physical. Perhaps her previous encounter had encouraged her too much. Grown in her mind. She felt her cheeks flush despite the cold. The small warmth she had thought she had felt from Nefyn; she had thought that she could somehow cultivate it. She turned, scolding herself as she walked, her mood darkening. Because she could not help herself, she turned one last time to look at the cottage and she was sure she caught sight of a figure. A man. Standing in the window, looking out.

Hamza had stared at the phone for a moment, his hands trembling. The first and second numbers he had remembered brought nothing but continuous dial tones. His brother’s phone, his parents. He cut off the calls, his mind racing, breathlessly repeating sequences of numbers he thought he knew. Trying not to drop the phone. The third number, a mobile number for Khalid, one of the few colleagues he could trust, had been answered. He’d listened. It was a young man’s voice. Khalid’s nephew. He’d tried to explain. He’d asked him about Hussein. But there was nothing but confusion. He didn’t know anything. He begged him not to hang up. He’d promised to contact his uncle. Then, the phone’s battery died.