Then the house appears, and at first I don’t believe that I’m here, that I have in fact made it. But a number on the wall indicates that this must be the house. It’s lovely, typically French, with thick stone walls, green window shutters, and a wrought-iron fence. The way I had imagined it.

But not exactly. Because it’s smaller, quite a simple house. The paint is flaking off the walls, the flower beds are untended, the shutters broken, and the fence should have been painted many years ago.

I stop outside and lower the bike to the ground.

He has a door knocker, not a doorbell: a copper dog’s head. I lift my hand and knock once, twice, before releasing it. My hand dangles at my side, my fingers stroking the fabric of my trousers. I wished I could hold on to something—both hands feel so empty. Now is the moment when I should have had the ice.

I listen for footsteps, but hear only insects, birds, and the drone of farm machinery in the distance.

I lift my hand again, take hold of the copper dog’s head, and knock again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

He’s not home. Nobody’s home.

I collapse on the stoop, suddenly so thirsty. I didn’t bring any water. I should have had the ice, a cold lump on my tongue that would melt in my mouth until my tongue was frozen and numb. I should have had the ice now.

I just sit there like that, completely still, but drifting all the same. A stoop, a closed door, I’m here and nothing has changed. This is it.

But then he comes.

Quick footsteps against the asphalt, that’s the first thing I hear, quick, light footsteps. I look up, he’s approaching me at a sprint, has already noticed me. He is sweating too—he’s out running, wearing shorts, a ragged T-shirt and well-worn running shoes that once upon a time were white.

How thin he is, sunken, and his face has sharp edges. Maybe it’s not him after all—maybe I’m seeing poorly, should have put on my glasses. It can’t be him; this wasn’t how he was supposed to be. And he’s running. I haven’t seen him run since he was a child, but now he’s running, with a surprising lightness, his feet hitting the ground rhythmically.

It is him, and he doesn’t stop running. He runs all the way up to me, through the gate. I’ve stood up without being aware of it, and he runs all the way up to me. He’s sweating—I can smell it, but it’s not a bad odor, just fresh sweat. I step down off the stoop and stand there facing him.

And then he throws his arms around me.

He throws his arms around me and laughs.

Chapter Thirty-Four: David