He froze guiltily. Being caught out planning his funeral made him feel disloyal; it was like planning to give up. She didn’t wait for a response. ‘And now you want to go to 6-13. Admit it, you’re addicted. You’re a conflict zone junkie.’ She leaned out of the window to pull in the towels she’d hung out. A breeze was making them dance, which meant a crack in the shield and a risk of dust. She tossed the towels down as she went on. ‘I’ve been out three years. You’re the one who keeps going back.’

‘Someone has to cover it! Even if everyone’s stopped reading.’

‘Totally, of course. But at this point, is that you?’

Her words stung. He shook his head, growing defensive. When they met, he had been the vehemently anti-war correspondent. That was still who he was, what he was all about. He couldn’t believe she would want him to give that up. ‘So what, I hang out here, thinking about this shit?’

‘Yes, maybe! I know you hate it, but listen, Sebastian, this is not the end. There are always new drugs coming out. Every quarter, every month. This is war and you have to fight.’

‘Is it, though? Is it? I know everyone says that. “Such-and-such lost a long battle with cancer.” But you’ve seen warfare, Teena, and you know it’s a dumb comparison. The whole thing about war is not just trying to stay alive, it’s that you actually have to make other people die. And then you stay alive, and afterwards you go home and try to live with yourself, which maybe you can and maybe you can’t.’

It wasn’t the first time he’d had this thought; he had been developing the idea for the last little while. He had imagined expounding it in front of an audience, perhaps while on a panel or possibly as a guest on a TV program. ‘Yes, Bob,’ he might say, warming to his theme, ‘I would say that is the difference. I would say that is a very salient difference.’

But he wasn’t on a panel. He was talking to Teena, and as he said the words out loud and he saw her face close over, he knew he had gone too far.

‘You know what,’ she said, ‘I am going to the gym.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Teena —’

But she was already out the door, she wouldn’t wait to hear it. Feeling awful, he tried her phone. It went straight to voicemail. He was trying again when she burst back in.

She stood in the doorway looking shocked and confused. Her phone was buzzing in her hand, and she looked from it to Sebastian as though she didn’t know what she should do with it. ‘It’s Zoe. She’s dead.’

‘What? No. She can’t be.’

‘Jamal just called to tell me.’