When Ben awoke, a faint drizzle was playing against the tent like TV static. Hours might have passed, but it felt as though he had just rested his eyes. He sat up on his elbows. To his surprise, the nylon was dry. He must have dreamt the raindrops trickling down from the ceiling, like a leak in his subconscious. The air was cold, but fusty with sweat and tuna breath. It was bright enough to make out the silhouettes of their rucksacks in the corner, but the world was still ruled by black shapes and a lingering feeling of night.

Mornings made Ben physically nauseous. His body always revolted when called to crawl out of bed. It made working a nine-to-five job feel like a five-day working hell. This morning was no different – the denial, the rage, the sad acceptance. He had to shake off the sleep like an addict sweating out his poison.

‘Chloe,’ he whispered.

She buried her face out of sight and muttered what sounded like, ‘Five more minutes.’

Ben’s worries had interlaced overnight and now they tightened at the thought of returning home empty-handed. The villagers had given him nothing to work with. Their ignorance was calculated and their answers succinct. It was never a promising sign when the questions occupied more reel than the answers. He needed more, anything to bulk up his side of Sparling’s report. Otherwise, the whole trip could have been for nothing. Ben would have to strap himself in for another year of retail-themed perdition. He imagined black mornings, black coffees, and a big black space where his hopes and dreams used to be.

They had set up camp east of where they entered the village. The church couldn’t have been far, and it wasn’t quite yet dawn. Ben had time. He hadn’t the foggiest notion of what he would do when he got there, but he knew he had time to do it.

‘I’m going to pop out for a moment,’ he said. ‘Will you be okay here by yourself?’

Chloe let out a little groan.

‘You’ll be fine,’ he added.

Ben raised the zip with slow, steady care so as to not disturb her. He would be back before she even realised he was gone. His face was met with the lightest spray of rain, as if a wave had crashed against the field’s wall. Given the hour, the air was still cold as night, and so he looped his scarf tight around his neck and buried his chin.