I sat at my desk and rested my head for a moment on my arms.

The weight of a hand on my shoulder. I thought it was Gareth and woke with a start. It was Mr. Sweatman. I’d fallen into an exhausted doze.

“Why don’t you go home, Esme?” he said.

“I can’t.”

He must have understood, because he nodded and put a pile of slips on my desk.

“New words from A to S,” he said. “They need to be sorted for the supplementary publication, whenever that will be.”

It was the simplest of tasks, but it would take up time. “Thank you, Mr. Sweatman.”

“Don’t you think it’s about time you called me Fred?”

“Thank you, Fred.”

“How odd that sounds coming from you. I’m sure we’ll get used to it,” he said. “As we must get used to any change.”