I stand to look out of the window. The high street below is empty apart from an empty crisp packet that floats along, caught by a breeze in the gutter. The early evening summer moon hangs low in the sky as though it’s keeping an extra-close eye on Rainstead tonight. In the distance a lighthouse winks out its warning. I watch as Jon walks down the hill towards the Bull. With his flimsy raincoat, Converse, and black-rimmed glasses he sticks out like a sore thumb. I should have got him to change into a tracksuit or something. He stops to look at a sign, like a foreigner just off the boat from a distant, more tasteful, and prosperous country, then carries on walking. I press my hand to the grubby window and without even knowing I’m going to say anything, I whisper, “Come back safe, won’t you?”

Then I feel stupid and drop my arm to my side.

I pull the curtains closed and sit back on the bed. There’s no TV and I don’t want to look at my phone, it’ll only make me feel guilty. Mum’s tried to call twice and sent a few crazy-sounding text messages. I texted her back before Jon left: I’m sorry, Mum. I’m really fine. I’ll be home tomorrow xxx.

I lie back on the unfamiliar, overly springy bed and feel the beat in my temple thud against my hands. I regret sleeping the day away—there’s no way I’m going to sleep until Jon’s back. I decide to go downstairs, ask if they have any acetaminophen for my head.

The pub has low ceilings and the same thick, heavily patterned carpet as upstairs. There’s a well-trodden path, the color of Marmite, running through the center of the carpet, leading to the bar. Although it’s not busy, I glance around the few drinkers, checking faces, make sure he’s not here.

The barmaid is chatting to a woman of a similar age. As I get closer I hear their local accents. They could have grown up with each other, neighbors, the other’s history as familiar to them as their own. Just like me and Grace, or what Grace and I could have been like. The barmaid is the same woman who checked us into our rooms. She’s maybe somewhere in her fifties, bottle blond, a little plump, kindly looking, but her smile is hesitant, as though she’s learned not to trust people she doesn’t know.

She reluctantly moves away from her friend and bends across the bar towards me.

“What can I get you?”

Suddenly it feels rude to ask for headache pills without at least paying for a drink, so I say, “Pint of Coke and a bag of salt and vinegar crisps, thanks.” I emphasize my Cornish vowels. I want her to know I understand, that I’m the same as her. She hears, smiles, warmer this time, and nods before half filling a pint glass with ice and pouring my drink.

“So I’m guessing you’re not here for a holiday,” she says. “You and your uncle must be—”