“Yes,” they say, nodding their heads. “Exactement.”

I try three different establishments, but the response is the same. In the absence of any other option, we return to the car, which I foolishly parked in full sun. “The only thing cooking in this town is us,” says Iris, rolling down her window and fanning her face with her book.

I look at Dad in the rearview mirror. His face is flushed and beads of sweat gather above his mouth. “Are you okay?” I ask him, twisting the lid off a bottle of water and handing it to him.

He examines the bottle but doesn’t drink from it. Instead he says, “I want to go home now.” Iris looks at me as if she’s waiting for me to say something. But there’s no need. Dad has already said it.

I turn the key in the ignition and drive out of the village, and it is only when I round a bend and hear the car horn blaring and see the oncoming car, I realize I’m on the wrong side of the road. I swerve and somehow manage to miss the car by a fraction and I wrestle with the steering wheel, desperate to regain control as the hedgerow on the far side looms large, scraping against the side of the car with a piercing rasp.

Iris spreads her hands across the dashboard. Dad points at the line in the middle of the road. “All traffic must keep to the left of the line,” he says.

I manage not to stop the car. If I do, I won’t have the nerve to start it again. I drive on, ignoring my shaking limbs and my frantic heart rate. Beside me, Iris remains tight-lipped, but she is no longer bracing herself against the dashboard.

I drive on.

The road narrows and twists in an unfamiliar way. I think perhaps I have taken a different route out of the village. I appear to be on a much more minor road than before. There are no other vehicles. No road signs.

I am lost.

I am lost in France. With my demented father and my suicidal friend.

The anger drains out of me all of a sudden and all I feel is tiredness. It must have been there all along. It feels like a weight. Like chains pulling me down. I don’t think I have ever felt so tired.

“I’m tired,” I say, and even my voice sounds jaded, too quiet for anyone to hear. But from the back seat, I hear my father strain against the seat belt as he leans forward. “Tired drivers are a major road safety risk,” he declares. “Both to themselves and to others.”

Iris looks at me. “Your dad’s right,” she says. “You should pull over.”

“Where?” I don’t mean to shout. It’s just the tiredness. I could drape myself across the steering wheel and be asleep in seconds.

“Just pull in on the grass verge,” says Iris. “Put the hazards on.”