“Are you okay, Dad?”

“I’m tired,” he says.

“We’re nearly there,” I tell him.

“Where?”

“To where we’re going.”

“Will Teresa be there?”

I don’t have to answer because Lucas arrives in my car. My repaired car. I have never been so glad to see anyone. Lucas pulls down the window. “Good morning,” he says, and his tone is straightforward. Uncomplicated. As if nothing is strange. As if Iris has not disappeared.

“Thanks for getting here so quickly,” I say.

“It sounded urgent on the telephone.”

“I need to get going as soon as possible.”

“Well, your car is in working order and the motorway will take you all the way,” Lucas says.

“The motorway?” I say. He nods.

The motorway.

I never drive on motorways. I’m afraid of motorways.

“Terry?” Lucas studies my face. “Is everything all right?”

“Well...no, not really, I...”

“Here, allow me to show you.” He picks my road map out of the pocket of the car door and gets out, unfolds the map across the bonnet. His hands, spread across the map, span most of western France. He nods and points. “We are here, see?”

“I see,” I say.

“So you take a left at the mairie and go five kilometers up that road and you will arrive at the motorway.”

“The motorway. Right.”

Lucas straightens, looks at me. “Your friend has gone ahead? Iris?” Now my face reddens. A clenching sensation inside my stomach.

“Did you see her?” I ask.

“She was in Vincent’s car,” he says.

“The taxi?” I say. He nods. Relief and regret struggle for position.

Iris is okay.

She shouldn’t be on her own. But she’s okay.

I let her down. But...

I let her down.

Lucas folds the map, offers it to me. “So,” he says. “You know the way now?”

“We had a fight,” I blurt. “Iris and me.”

“I’m certain you will reach a resolution,” he says. “You are close, yes?”

“Yes,” I say. “We are close.” My voice is low. Like it’s bowed down. Like I am bowed down. Hollowed out inside, save for a great well of sadness, deep enough to drown in. The sadness of knowing how badly I let Iris down. Knowing how I dumped the promise I made to her. Dumped it like rubbish onto the floor of our friendship. Lucas puts his arms around me and for a moment I allow myself the luxury of comfort, pushing my face into the cotton of his T-shirt, feeling the vast span of his arms around me, the press of his hands against my back. I know that, once I lift my head, I’ll have to leave. I’ll have to face everything.

Dad taps Lucas on the shoulder. “Excuse me?” he says. I lift my head. Pick a tissue out of my pocket and wipe my face, blow my nose. Lucas’s T-shirt is stained with my tears and possibly some snot.

“Have I ever told you about the time I picked Frank Sinatra up?”