A man comes through the garden door into the room. He’s talking on a cell phone, as he walks. Rat can see that he’s tall and gaunt, and that he’s wearing baggy corduroys that hang off his scarecrow body. He is wearing a button-down shirt, but the collar is ragged. His long narrow feet are bare. He looks almost as disheveled as she and Morgan do. Rat can’t make out his face yet, because he’s against the light, and she hopes he can’t see hers, because she’s fighting back tears, she’s not sure why, probably just nerves or fatigue, because it’s been such a bitch to get them here.

Rat wipes her eyes with one hand. With the other, she’s holding on to Morgan’s hand, even though they never hold hands anymore, especially not in public, she’s squeezing his hand so hard it must hurt, but he doesn’t complain or try to wriggle free, and for that she’s grateful. After all, it’s because of Morgan that they’re here.

The man’s making good-bye noises to whomever he’s talking to. He is looking at Rat as he speaks, in a sidelong sort of way. Then he puts the phone back in his pocket, and ambles across the room to meet her.

“Sorry,” he says in French.

He doesn’t kiss her or shake her hand. This time Rat knows enough not to make the first move.

He has a large head. He has freckly skin with a faint flush to it, narrow green eyes, a wide thin mouth. There are a thousand tiny wrinkles around his eyes that suggest that sometime he must smile, but he isn’t smiling now.

Somehow she’d thought he would still be a boy her age, all beautiful, the curly black-haired boy on the drawing-room floor. She’s come too late.

He’s a middle-aged man. He’s the same age as Vanessa, but he looks older, as if he’s lived through wars and sickness. His hair is gray and close-cropped. There are broken vessels around his nose, pouches under his eyes. He isn’t even an especially handsome man.

Then Rat looks down at his bare feet. They are horned and calloused, the way feet get if you rarely wear shoes. The toenails on one foot are blue. It’s an unappetizing sight, and yet it’s the first thing that arouses a sense of kinship in her.

He, too, has been looking her over obliquely, and she hopes he can’t see that she’s trembling so hard she can hardly stand.

“How was the taxi ride?”

“Fine, thanks. Thanks a lot. It was quicker than hitching.”

“I didn’t think anybody dared hitch nowadays, especially not young girls.”

They look at each other in silence.

“What did you do to your foot?” she ventures, finally.