He ran up to the car and tapped on the passenger window, smiling with one side of his mouth. He was handsome, in a rough sort of way – lank, light brown hair; stubble; a deep, damaging tan. The intense, pale eyes of an addict. His clothes would have been nice, once. I could imagine the whole story: a ticking clock in the house where people were waiting for him, and on the mantelpiece, photos from another time: him young and fresh and limber, winning a race, or fishing with his father, or with an arm around his mother, her eyes closed in maternal bliss.

I leaned over and wound the window down. ‘You scared me,’ I said.

‘Are you going to the city?’ His eyes gleamed. This man could be a murderer, I thought.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Could I get a lift?’

‘What are you doing out here?’

He shrugged. ‘I was with friends,’ he said.

‘Where are they?’

‘Wish I knew. I woke up – they’d gone.’

‘Some friends.’

‘Right?’ He laughed and his laugh was wheezy. ‘Please,’ he said. His mouth twitched.

I must have inclined my head; he took it for a nod. Before I knew it he was in the car, landing beside me in the passenger seat. He dropped the backpack between his knees. His odour was potent: smoke, dirty sneakers, and the mildew of clothes that haven’t dried properly.

‘Thanks, man,’ he said. ‘Most people won’t even slow down. Most people are pricks.’

He let out a bark of laughter. My stomach tightened. He started to bob his knee up and down, then turned the dial on the radio until the static vanished.

We’d been driving for a while when I said, ‘Where are you headed?’

‘Just to the city,’ he said. ‘Drop me anywhere.’

His knee hadn’t stopped bobbing. I could see how thin his thigh was, barely more than a femur. I found myself wondering what he looked like naked. I wondered whether I’d be able to see all his ribs, the knobs of his spine, whether his navel would be stretched and shallow, his sex obscenely fat compared with the rest of his body.

This thinness reminded me of my mother, who had insisted on dying at home. I suppose that’s how she got me back there. I spent months living at that house, my days occupied by the little chains of nothing that take up time while you’re waiting for someone to die. Pegging her nightdresses on the line and watching the wind fill them out in a way she no longer could. Poaching an egg with forensic concentration. Polishing my shoes, then her shoes, though she had no need of them.

I liked to watch her sleep. Even while dozing her expression was haughty. I could see her skull, the way her body was already dismantling itself.