I hear a muffled wail that reminds me of the horn of an ocean liner in distress. It’s a lorry. I look up and time stands still. I am a hundred metres away, but the clamour of the onlookers is so loud that I feel as if I’m already on the spot. My phone smashes on the ground. I howl. My ankle twists, I fall over, get up, remove my stilettos and run as I’ve never run before. The lorry has stopped now. I’m not the only one screaming. A dozen people who were sitting at a café terrace in the sunshine on this beautiful winter’s morning have jumped to their feet. A father covers his son’s eyes. How old is he? Four or five, probably. This kind of scene is not for him. Even in films, this kind of scene is never shown. To anyone. At most, it can be suggested. I get closer and scream again. I fling myself to the ground, grazing my knees, but I don’t feel the pain. Not that pain, in any case. Louis. Louis. Louis. Louis. My love. My life. How can I describe the indescribable? A witness, later, used the word she-wolf. The cries of a she-wolf being disembowelled. I fight, I claw the ground, my body’s shaking, I cradle Louis’s head in my hands. I know I mustn’t touch him, that he mustn’t be moved, but I can’t . . . Always that same gap between theory and reality. I can’t leave him lying on the ground and do nothing. Yet I cradle his head and do nothing other than wait, crying, constantly checking his breathing. Is he breathing? He’s breathing. He’s stopped breathing. He’s breathing again. The emergency services arrive in record time. A fireman takes charge of me, or rather he tries to pull me off Louis. I slap him. I apologize. He smiles at me. I remember everything: his gestures that are both firm and gentle, his unsightly nose, his comforting voice, his formulaic words, the ambulance driving off. I catch a few snatches. Paediatric A & E. Robert Debré Hospital. Intensive care. ‘Everything will be all right, madame.’ No, it won’t be all right. ‘I’ll drive you there.’ I crumple. He holds me. My muscles, tensed up since the accident, have just given way. Someone sits me on a chair on the sun-drenched terrace of the café. My body no longer responds. My stomach is in knots; I throw up my breakfast all over the table of the hipster bar, which empties within seconds. I wipe my mouth, drink a glass of water and look up.

Nothing has changed around me. The sky is still as blue and pure. I look at my watch – also smashed; the face cracked, hands stopped. A motionless witness. It is still 10:32.

One morning