I open my mouth, then shut it again. My first instinct is that he’s made a mistake and with a shock I see that Duval is thinking the same. It’s right there in his face. His eyes cross with mine and behind the dead-end stare there’s something else, like a door opening briefly onto a hidden passageway. A look of acknowledgement passes between us, then his eyes blank over again. He stands up and screws on his hat.

Pause. ‘I’d better be going.’

‘Yes, and your little dog too,’ I say evilly.

‘No!’ the children shriek.

Duval clicks his fingers and heads for the door. Taco pads across the floor and obediently falls in behind him.

For the rest of the evening, the phrase ‘out of character’ keeps coming back to me but it’s not until I’m groggy with sleep that I finally pinpoint why. If Duval’s quip was out of character, then it implies that for the rest of the time Duval is in character and if he is in character, then by definition he’s pretending to be somebody he is not. And once again the penny drops and this time it lands with a loud clanging noise. I shoot up in bed and feel for the light switch – then fumble in the bedside table for the little wooden box. Sure enough, it’s gone. Of course it’s gone. How could I have been so obtuse? Taco sleeping at my feet, Duval instructing the crew in Spanish. Duval who, in supervising the widening of the window, had plenty of opportunity to take back what was his. It’s Duval who had kicked off his boots and lain on top of the shrunken wool blanket while the coyotes bayed outside the window. It’s Duval who has been sleeping in my bed.

I say nothing.

Maybe it had been only the one night. Maybe his truck had broken down. Maybe he lives in a trailer home and simply wanted to take advantage of hot and cold running water while he could? While it’s not an alarming thought, it is a puzzling one. Speaking both Spanish and English might not be significant here on the apex of two countries, but the letter was headed ‘The University of California’ – and if Duval reads and writes fluently in two languages and has a university education then certainly he’s not the monosyllabic hick he pretends to be – and if he’s not? Well ... I don’t know. I try to work through the other possibilities but, instead, other thoughts begin to creep into my head. What was he thinking as he lay in my bed? Did he wake early, as I do, and wait for the outlines of trees to appear in the dawn light? Had he ever wondered about me? Tried to put a face to my name? Imagined a life for me?