A headache blooms under one of my temples. I close my eyes and press it. I’m overreacting. It’s the Day, that’s all. This man isn’t coherent, isn’t reasonable. My real husband will come back tomorrow, and if there’s any tension left between us, we’ll deal with it. We just need to wait out the Day. Six hours to go now or close enough.

What does Charlie say? “Are we nearly there yet?” Nearly nearly there, I always say back.

“I didn’t mean myself.” His voice rings out just as I reach the hall. “When I talked about the odds, I was talking about you and the children. Don’t get me wrong, I’d bloody well like to live too, but you matter more. I hope you understood that. Our family is everything.”

It’s no use quoting philosophers at him, he’s never been much interested, but surely it should be obvious to anyone with any sort of moral compass that you can’t pick and choose who suffers, who dies. If you accept this, this day, this tithe, then you’re subject to it.

“What about Sally?” I ask it quietly, listening hard to make sure she’s not coming up from the kitchen. “Do you care whether she lives?”

He stands from the chair, wobbling. “Of course. Sally too.”

“And Jo? Ian? Lannie? The Tavishes? The Tinkers?”

“I…”

I hope for a second his head is clearing, then I see him steering a course to the corner liquor cabinet, tumbler in hand. That stupid key ring wobbles back and forth against his hip like chimes.

“Brian? Tim?” I don’t know if I’m still talking in order to jar some sense back into him or just to get this raw, insane feeling out of myself. “The Smiths. Did you care that Avery died? Are you sad at all?”

He pours, hand shaking.

“What about Matthew?” I say it even louder. “He was your best friend from, what, infancy?”

Along with Andy Blanchard.

The mention of Matty alone is enough to stop him, his whole body pausing for a single beat, but he doesn’t look at me. “Matthew is not my friend. Far from it.”

I feel unsafe in here. Good lord, of course I do, any rational person would. It’s the Day, the Day, the Day. I take in the carved chandelier above me, the tiles lining the doorjamb, the roof, the floor, all so jagged and slick and unsteady now, but the truth is that none of them frighten me as much as the man across the room.

“They keep asking about you.” This is it, what I’ve wanted to say since I walked into the house. “Wondering whether you’re going to come out.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Charlie’s saved you a sandwich.”

Still nothing.

I go.