“Yes.”

Iris is sure.

Dad eats his way through the mound of individually wrapped Swiss chocolates from the bowl on the table.

Hanneke pushes her chair back, stands up, walks into the kitchen.

I hear her open cupboards, the rattle of the cutlery drawer, the tinkle of a spoon against a cup. I see Iris’s mouth moving, her face creased in a grin. She is telling a funny story. I can tell by the way she moves her hands. To demonstrate. I smile. Nod my head. Everything inside my body is clenched.

Clamped. Even my breath. I shiver. I sweat. The walls of the room press around us. Dad crams a fistful of chocolates into his pocket. The scratch-scratch-scratch of Iris’s pen across another form.

I stand up. Iris looks at me, startled. “Are you okay, Terry?” she says.

“I...need to use the bathroom,” I say. My voice sounds strange to me. Strangled. Iris smiles and nods as if my voice does not sound strange. Or strangled. I move towards the kitchen, one foot forward, then the other, my hands curled into fists at the end of my arms that swing in tandem with my steps. Like pendulums, counting down the seconds.

In the kitchen, Hanneke is preparing the first solution that Iris will take. The one that will stop her body rejecting the second. The second solution is the one that will fell her.

Hanneke looks up, puts the glass down on the counter, moves towards me, folds me into a chair, pushes my head between my knees. Her movements are deft. Quiet. Practiced. She has done this before.

The sensation of blood rushing to my head is a curious one. Loud. I hear the roar of it in my ears. I see it behind the lids of my eyes, like shadows of dancers, twisting and turning in time to the beat of the blood. The thump of it.

When Hanneke bends, I hear the creak of her knees. She rubs my back. Small, circular movements.

“Breathe,” she whispers.

“I don’t think I can...”

“Ssshhh,” says Hanneke, still rubbing me.

I breathe. Big breath in, hold it for five, release for five.

Repeat.

“Sorry, Hanneke,” I say when I release my head from its clamp between my knees.

She smiles at me. “It is often harder for the ones who are left behind,” she says. She nods her head towards the room where Iris and my dad are singing “My Way.” Iris doesn’t know all the words. Dad does. “...I’ve lived a life that’s full, I’ve traveled each and every highway...”

“The others,” says Hanneke. “The ones who come here, they are more prepared. This is natural.” I nod. Breathe. Stand up. “Will you be all right?” she asks me.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I will.”

34

Yield right of way.

In some ways, I never want this day to end. Once it does, it’s the past. Set in stone.

Dad and I are on the ferry, having driven seven hours on the motorway from Zurich to Calais, stopping three times for cake and other necessities.