I picture him hurrying towards her, his too-big backpack banging against his back, his school blazer falling off his shoulders, the gappy-toothed grin he’ll greet her with.

“Sorry, Dad, gotta go. Mum’s taking me out for pizza to celebrate.”

I clear my throat before I say, “OK. Have a good time, mate. Love you, Jakey.”

“You too, Dad,” he says before the line goes dead and I’m left with a hollow ache: grief for the family we once were. Two years ago Ruth and I were told to think about how to say goodbye to our son and today he’s playing football for his school team. We’re proof that sometimes people do get second chances. Is it possible Ruth and I could have a second chance too?

I look at my watch, realizing the ten minutes I promised myself has somehow melted into half an hour. I shove the box under my bed and force myself back to my computer. An hour later I’ve written six hundred words about sheepdog trials and giant vegetable competitions, and with a quick glance at my watch I rush out to meet Dave.

Dave is already sitting at a corner table. The Red Dragon, his favorite, is an old-fashioned pub and I have to duck to avoid destroying a bunch of dried hops hanging from the ceiling. Dave has a wide, jowly face and strangely delicate features, a button nose and rosebud mouth that would be sweet on a young girl but don’t work so well on a balding forty-something man. To be honest, if Dave wasn’t a policeman we wouldn’t have seen each other again after that first night. But most good reporters know how important it is to have an ear in the police station, so I made sure we kept in touch. But tonight, I remind myself, I’m meeting him as a friend. Dave’s facing the door, absentmindedly tearing up a cardboard beer coaster. He hasn’t got himself a drink because the unspoken deal is that I buy the drinks and he talks about local police stuff once his tongue is loosened. Tonight, I don’t care. I just want a drink. I wave at him and his brow relaxes as I head to the bar, ordering two pints. Dave keeps his eyes fixed on the beers as I carry them over to him.

“Ah, cheers, mate,” he says, lifting his pint as soon as I’ve put it on the table in front of him.

“How’s it going, Dave?” I ask, sitting on a small stool opposite him. Dave shrugs as he drinks.

“Karen’s going for the jugular again,” he says.

This is why I texted him. Dave’s as soft as a marshmallow and loves to talk about his ex-wife, whom he still clearly loves. I nod and murmur agreement at the right moments. Karen’s started dating and Dave is understandably cut up about it. I wonder whether his sensitivity is why Dave’s never been promoted, why after fifteen years he’s still only a constable in the macho Ashford police force. As Dave finishes his pint I’m about to take the opportunity to start talking about Ruth when the barmaid changes the channel on the television to—in what must be a first in the history of the Dragon—the news. Dave and I swivel on our stools towards the screen as the reporter addresses the camera outside number 52 Woodgreen Avenue.