He said nothing to this. The whole time she’d spoken she’d still not looked at him. Her face golden, a flickering flame. Her weathered eyes. She didn’t seem sad. Not what he’d call it. She leaned forward, and finally met his eyes. And smiled.

He cleared his throat and said, ‘You know what I hate?’

‘Talking about stuff like this?’

‘I hate when you call me Vernie.’

Her face scrunched in, puzzled. ‘But I’ve always called you that.’

‘I know.’

‘And you’ve always hated it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Vernie,’ she said, and stopped. ‘You should’ve said something.’

‘Well, I knew you liked it.’

‘You still should’ve said.’

‘No use in that.’

She came around the fire to look at their cans. ‘They ready?’

‘Bit longer.’

She sat back down. ‘What don’t you like about it?’

‘It makes me feel like a kid. It just sounds like a name for a kid. It’s emasculating.’

She said, ‘Emasculating? Didn’t know you knew that word.’

‘I’m full of surprises.’

‘You should have said something.’

‘Yeah. My fault.’

‘Too right it’s your fault.’

He finally retrieved the cans from the edge of the fire and they ate their spaghetti in silence. It warmed his belly at least. He found himself looking up a lot, at the stars, at Port Napier’s lights. If he squinted just so it looked as though Port Napier itself had faded into the night and become a deeper part of the universe, out of his reach.

Later, in the tent in their sleeping bags, something felt off to Vernon. He sat up. He couldn’t hear anything unusual and there was nothing different about the ocean’s rhythm. Maybe it was the army still in him all these years later that made him get up, grab his gun, and walk from the tent.

Outside it was blowing a bit. He pulled his coat around him and with his gumboots on walked to the water’s edge. Behind him came the unmistakable sound of a person murmuring—low, and caught on the breeze. Vernon sat on his haunches and rubbed his hands together. Might be just young people, camping, fishing. Might be nothing at all.

Then he heard his name shouted.

THIRTY-ONE

SHARON WORNKIN

Out the window of her hospital was utter darkness. The sun had long since set. The television above her bed, hung at an obscene height so that patients who were unable to sit up could still see, flickered with some late-night repeat of a game show. Sale of the Century. Wheel of Fortune. They were all the same. Sharon watched the colours from the set warping across the tiled ceiling.

Roger hadn’t appeared. She wasn’t sure if Peter had even told him she was here. She should have called him. No telling how he’d respond to her beating, or what he’d do to those responsible. Or what he’d want to do. She supposed she was afraid. If he came, saw her condition, and then argued in defence of Ernie, they’d be through. But she couldn’t stomach the thought of him wanting to protect her, either. So she didn’t call. She put off what she knew she’d have to do soon enough regardless. She just lay there and watched this garbage on television and was simply still for a bit.