It’s hard to concentrate. Distracted, I look back on old events. I can’t help but zoom in on one person: Stuart. His pain is evident to me even when he’s smiling because I’m privy to his vulnerabilities given that I am the closest friend of his deceased wife. He is much better looking on film than in reality. The urge to reminisce overwhelmingly takes hold as I browse through more of my collection. I have hundreds of photos of his and Nina’s children because I find those harder to delete.

Friends sometimes mail me random shots or post them on social media. As a rule, I don’t keep many of those because mine more than suffice, however one has slipped in. It’s of me and Stuart, dancing at someone’s thirtieth three years ago. Clearly, I couldn’t have taken it, and although we look natural and relaxed, it’s not a great shot. I can’t think why I didn’t discard it. I never mix my files up; it’s disconcerting. I guess the stress of the past few years is bound to manifest in varying ways.

It’s gone two by the time I return to bed. I know when I next open my eyes that it’s morning because I never wake up late. I reach for Ben. My hand slides along the cool flatness of the sheet until I reach the edge of the bed. I sit up.

He was seemingly out cold a few hours ago, plus he doesn’t have a shift today. He’s not in the bathroom or downstairs, and his bike is missing from the hall. Dread, the anxious kind when truth is forcing its horrible reality into your consciousness, forms. He knows from all the advice that it’s best if we try again this morning to maximize our chances.

I compose a message, then delete it. I can’t think of the right words until I decide to keep it simple and unpressurized.

I love you xxx.

I press Send.

My phone rings, hope reignites; Ben isn’t avoiding me, perhaps he’s merely nipped out for croissants or milk.

It’s not him.

“Hi, Stuart,” I say.

“I hate to ask you but...”

He phrases it in the same way that Nina used to. Buried indignation rises, but I manage to suppress it because I already know that I’ll do whatever favor he’s going to ask me.

“Yes?”

“Someone tried to break in to the garage last night. There’s a locksmith available at nine thirty.” I note that his Australian accent sounds slightly more pronounced on the phone. “Any chance you could wait in after taking the kids to school? I’m unprepared for a meeting I can’t cancel. I don’t want to leave the garage door broken because it makes the interconnecting entrance to the house less secure.”

“Didn’t the security alarm go off?”

Nina insisted on having one installed earlier this year.

“I haven’t got into the habit of setting it. It was something Nina usually did before we went to bed.”