The big window is shut in my bedroom and the air is dry and stale. The children have stripped off their pyjama tops and their bare skin shines brown against the whiteness of the sheets. They look like they’re practising synchronized sleeping – right arms are thrown to one side, left hands shoved under pillows. All four knees are bent upwards and the pyjama shorts they both like to wear are hiked up, revealing one buttock each. Emmy has an eczema scab on her back which has leaked a smear of blood where she’s been scratching it, and suddenly, from way out of left field, I feel turned inside out with loneliness. I creep into the bed between the children and hold their sweating bodies close. I blink out into the darkness and picture Benjamín making his way back to his cabin, replacing his children with mine; then, because I don’t want to think about it any more, I shut my eyes, but it’s no good, my head is filled with one sad image after another. Robert in the restaurant, his head in his hands; my father walking down the beach, a small hunched figure against the grey sea; fat Nora, alone somewhere, nursing a beer and probably minding the jibe about the hog season more than anyone could know. I think of Jack and Emmy forced to see their grandmother behind my back, of Duval steering his truck around the silent curves of the mountain. And right at this moment, the world does not feel like a place where anyone can find happiness. I think about what Duval said and maybe I don’t understand what I’m looking for and maybe I won’t ever find it here, but I am starting to believe that you don’t need to know what you’re escaping from to become a fugitive.

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