The rain suddenly intensifies, buries her in the mud up to her ankles, and the downpour breaks up the landscape, cutting her off from the rest of the world. She can’t see further than five yards; in any case, it’s raining so hard she has to close her eyes. The rain drums on her body, stings her skin and runs down it, like caresses after blows. This goes on for a few minutes or much longer, a dance with very few moves. Then Johanna throws her head back and lets out a throaty, animal-like scream that’s neither a moan nor a call but a little of both, a scream that extends her, hoarse and euphoric. But when she runs out of breath and falls quiet, there’s another scream that responds to her silence; several screams, in fact, that blend with the noise of the rain and come from her grandparents’ house. She thinks she can even hear her name.

Are they worried about her? Or is it something else?

The magic has gone: the strange trance, with her feet in the mud, suddenly seems out of place and embarrassing. She gets dressed. The jeans stick and she has trouble putting them on; she doesn’t bother with the socks, and sprints barefoot to the house, a shoe in each hand.

Despite the rain, there’s a commotion beneath the linden tree.

Her sister, bent double, is letting out little moans, while her grandmother is panicking over her phone. The workers are yelling, each giving advice on the next step to take.

“We can take my car!” Pascal shouts over the melee, but the old woman gestures at him to keep quiet – she’s trying unsuccessfully to get through to her daughter or her son-in-law on the phone.

Jo counts in her head. Six months isn’t long; OK, it might be seven, but that still doesn’t make nine.

Pascal runs to his old Peugeot, parked further down the path. He starts the engine and drives up to the linden tree. The others make way and Céline gets in the back. Just as her grandmother is about to sit in the passenger seat, Jo rushes to the car and plants herself in front of the door.

“I’ll go, Grandma. You can stay here.”

The old woman looks at Jo’s bare feet, covered in mud, at her body drenched by the downpour. She removes her woollen cardigan and puts it over her shoulders.

“Go. I’ll try and tell your mother.”

“And my father.”

“And your father.”

Céline cries out in pain, curled up on the back seat.

“Go, hurry up.”