Then I remember what Dream Haze reminds me of more than anything. It’s the air fresheners in our house, the little vials plugged into the wall that release a puff of Aqua Breeze or Exotic Sunset as you walk past.

When we arrive home, there’s a box outside the door. Andrew picks it up, looks at the note, sees that I am looking over his shoulder, passes the box to me.

The note reads:

Va te faire foutre.

xx

What is it? Andrew asks.

I don’t know, I say.

I wait until I can hear him moving around downstairs. I untie the string. Inside, I see my grandmother’s dress, a mohair sweater that belonged to our mother, a plush toy horse I owned as a child. I sink my face into the box. What I can smell: mothballs, dust, mildew, dry-cleaning fluid, wet sheep, talcum powder. And old, dried sweat.

And there is something else in there, too, some other note. I try to place it, but it’s like seeing a person from behind, someone you’re not sure you know. It slips away.

I hide the box inside another box. I go downstairs to Andrew, and put my arms around his waist and my face against his back.

But now, whenever I’m alone in the house, I slip the box out and inhale its contents. I can’t name it, not yet, that last, elusive part of the scent. But I know it. I know that I know it. And I know it will be there, waiting for me; I know it is strong enough to last.

Rip

The success or failure of a dive is decided as soon as your weight leaves the platform. Two things are determined in that fraction of a second: how high you’ll reach, and the angle at which you’ll drop. Once you’re committed, that’s it. Any mistake is impossible to correct.

For a dive from the ten-metre platform you have about one-and-a-half seconds to twist and flip your body in the way you’ve claimed you can. More height means more time, and time is everything when you’re plummeting towards the water at terminal speed.

When I was a diver, we spent a lot of time at training working on our takeoffs. I remember the burn in my calves, the twin bulbs of the gastrocnemius firing together to propel me upwards, over and over. I remember how my wrists used to ache. I remember the pre-training ritual: my whole team taping up our less stable joints, bracing ourselves as well as we could for impact.