His face, all that tethered me to this life, was a weathered map, with deep grooves going every which way, pointing in no direction at all. I couldn’t contain its goodness, or what I’d just done, which crept back into my awareness in small sips, and had to look away. The rain had stopped and the air was soft. I watched the water curling against the side of the boat, rocking us like a cradle. I don’t know how long we sat like that, we two, but he asked nothing of me.

Finally, I took a ragged gulp from the cup and felt the burn of gin down my throat, pure sensation, perhaps too numb to feel the pain of being alive. Too numb to locate any emotion at all. That’s when I remembered that watermen get paid to dredge for suicides.

“How much will you get for me?” I asked him, still reaching for every breath.

“A penny, if I’m lucky. But a pint on top if you’ve a tale to tell.”

“You’d trade my story?”

“If it’s a good one, I’ll have a four-pint sleep tonight.”

I pulled the blanket closer. “I meant to die,” I said. “That’s all.”

“They all says they meant to. But I’ve never seen a one off Putney twice.”

“There are other bridges.”

He drew his chin back and grunted as if he knew better. “’S not the way thinkin’ goes, when yer not straight-thinkin’.”

I let the blanket fall away from my shoulder, with not even the strength to keep it up. He leaned over and pulled it back into place. Such a small gesture, but it was everything.

“Let’s let the grim stream wait another day,” he said to me.

I drank the rest of the gin and handed him the empty cup with a small nod of thanks, surprised by a shiver of gladness that he’d saved me. He took up his oars, a slow pulling start for shore. I looked at my hands, coming back to feeling, the skin on my fingers puckered and white. That’s when I realized Fanny’s ring wasn’t there.