He thought, too, of how things might go if he didn’t leave instructions, the awfulness of someone playing some really crappy music, the highly possible disaster of a badly chosen reading. He knew it wasn’t a good idea to try to talk about this with Teena, even though he would have liked to rule out a few things up front, like R&B ballads and anything biblical. He figured the best thing was to write out his ideas, make a final list and tuck it safely in a drawer, his last will and testament regarding the event.

His phone rang again, breaking into his thoughts. He answered it thinking it was his dad again. Instead, he heard the voice of his friend Dino. Immersed in his own concerns, Dino had forgotten that Sebastian was meant to be away for work.

‘Hey, Seb, what’s happening? Want to stop by the studio?’

Dino was an artist. He painted the sand dunes, cliffs and caves beyond the settlement’s limits, churning out proficient landscapes that were increasingly popular.

‘Can’t today, Dino. Work is insanely busy.’

‘Yeah, I hear you, man. I’m painting like crazy. I’ve got this retrospective opening on Day Zero.’

A retrospective? Sebastian blinked. He had been looking out the window, ready to tune out, but now he found himself jealous of this mark of acclaim. These past few weeks, he’d been trying not to think about the state of his own career as a freelance journalist. He had always been confident of his eventual success, perhaps a stunning exposé that would spark controversy and debate. He had pictured the future as being ripe with promise, or rather with a thousand different promises. It was a far-off, inviting land, suggestive of a gorgeous superfluity. Now, though, his horizons were closing in, hurtling towards him way before he was ready.

‘Aren’t you too young to be having a retrospective?’ He pictured his scruffy friend, who went everywhere in scuffed Converse high-tops, cords, and a zip-up hoodie. The scar across the bridge of his beakish nose, a legacy of a car accident, gave him the look of an outsized wounded bird. Dino was not yet forty, although he was old enough, as Sebastian now knew, to be the father of a teenager, a boy who had only lately got in touch. It was bizarre to think that Dino had had a son all this time, a kid – his own flesh and blood – walking around New Province.

‘Well, it’s really a survey show. That’s what they call it if you’re not dead. And I’ve been around the traps for a while now, you know.’

‘Yeah, but doing what? Picking up art school students?’

Dino was unabashed. ‘I don’t know what you mean. I’ve been beavering away on a few new pieces, as it happens.’

‘Wait. You’re making new work for the show? Day Zero is next week.’