And, finally, you know that I am here.

I drove the moped back up the track and down the other side of the long, steep hill, the wind grabbing at my knees. Back to the loch, to the village. Back to the forest path I’d taken days and days ago, when I’d lain in the moss, got stoned and lost and passed Johnny coming the other way. Back to the beach.

Jim had to be there.

The beach was empty. The news reports said it had happened on the north side of the loch, a mile east of the village. I dumped the moped and hobbled over the slick stones.

The half-sun made blazing silver blotches on the water. There was a boat further out.

This was where it had happened. I tried to imagine it – her – flying across, the rude smack of the gunshot, Johnny further down out of sight. A girl in the grass. Jim running down to her.

Here. The smooth, polished stone, upright and facing the loch. Its two fine, pale curves, meeting in the middle like swan wings. And I knew then that Jim hadn’t put it there. Johnny had. He’d made it for his niece. A gravestone.

My insides were tied like the end of a balloon. He wasn’t here. I tried to picture the Ordnance Survey map and track everywhere I’d been with Jim. The lobster cages. The birds. The waterfall – oh God, I’d never be able to get back there.

As I clambered back over the stones, I thought of Johnny. The smooth, blunt antlers on his walking stick handle. And the other antlers I’d seen, less than an hour earlier, paperweighting Jim’s drawings. And I remembered where I’d seen something in that pallid, hand-beaten metal before.

When you went away I walked and wandered and swam and flew. And when you came back you’d been hollowed. A bone chime sounding only grief.

You made this home and lifted your shoulders up, away from people. My once-laughing boy.

You looked for answers. You picked up birds, took them apart, their struts and trusses, looking for me. You sat with feathers and bones spreading around you like petals. As if you hadn’t punished yourself enough.

This girl makes you laugh a little. It is hard to watch but I know it will not be for long.

My love. I love you still. With the winter beginning to shiver in your hair and the years forging paths on your face.

I want you to come now.

It wasn’t your fault. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to tell you.

I want you to walk with me on the brows of these hills. Come drink with me under the cold moon’s silk. The glass lid. The deep death.

Water and air, that’s all we are.

No vodka dares this time. The padlock was already in the dirt by the wall, the gate open a notch. I left the moped next to the jeep.