It took some driving, but soon he discovered a back-road concession he recognized. He found the lane shortly after, a dark opening between radial skirts of vegetation. He turned slowly, listening to his tires snap gravel. Shade swallowed him and the wooded hollows opened, cool yet arid beneath late-summer skies. Though the ground was level, it seemed the Acura rolled forward of its own volition. Magnetic hill, he thought inanely. As he remembered, the lane curved to the left, gradually pinched out of existence by screens of greenery. He looked away, to the canopy scrolling along the polished hood—glimpses of sky through tattered black-green. He braked.

Have to stop. Have to surprise him. Have to…

He hefted the gun in a sweaty palm.

Frankie.

He wasn't strong enough. Was he?

No. Oh-my-God, no…

He leaned his head against the steering wheel. Perhaps one or two sobs escaped him.

My boy. Gotta remember my boy. He rubbed away snot and tears.

But what if things went wrong? Disastrous images cascaded through his thoughts. Thomas wasn't stupid or weak, but in all the years he'd known Neil, he had lost everything to him. From chess to squash to… Nora.

Neil always won. Plain and simple.

But not in this!

He was the righteous one, wasn't he? A father fighting to save his son? A father fighting…

He pushed open the door, paused. The surrounding woods seemed mossy with humus and motionless undergrowth. The trees defeated the distances, obscuring any glimpse of the cottage.

Thomas turned off the car. Clutched the revolver.

'Please,' he whispered. 'Please…'

Everything would be okay. He was a father fighting to save his son.

More images of disaster assailed him, but he clenched his teeth and swung his feet from the car. Fuck it! he thought. Fuck it! He'd simply sprint through the trees—fucking charge the cabin. Kick in the fucking door! Rush headlong into catastrophe! Who fucking cared what happened? At least it would be over. Wouldn't it?

Not for my boy.

A life of horror. A life spent gagging on screams.

Frankie. How had his name become a prayer?

Thomas pulled his feet in, reached out and slammed shut the door.

Such a fucking idiot!

He dropped the gun on the passenger seat. It seemed he could taste its metal, smell its oily threat.

Idiot! Idiot! The world was a great mindless thresher. Every second, spirits broken, cancers missed, daughters raped, wives beaten, children murdered. Every fucking second, the rules of narrative annihilated. Every second for a thousand years—for a million! Even his hominid ancestors had wept, hadn't they? Raised hapless hands against the dust-rimmed misery of their lives. Even the australo-pithecines had screamed.

Where was the Book of their Names?

Think clear. Think straight… Reason this through for Christ's sake!

With a shaking hand, Thomas tugged his Acura into reverse. He retreated from the lane, barging through bushes like shredded parasols.

Every second some father failed his son.