“Yeah,” he says. Then, more quietly, “Yeah, I suppose that’s right.”

I touch his arm. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Of course. All good.” He smiles and opens the door without knocking in a way that speaks of years of familiarity. “Hello, hello—ah, Glen! How are you?” The kitchen seems smaller with Ben in it, shaking hands vigorously with Fiona’s father, and tousling Callum’s hair whilst Fiona attempts to pull a tracksuit top over Callum’s head. It’s already apparent to me that Callum is the beating heart of this house. Fiona and Glen revolve around his timetable.

“Is it Doune we’re playing?” Callum asks, when his head emerges.

“Aye,” says Fiona, her head bent as she ties Callum’s lace. He’s only wearing one football boot.

“Oh no!” he groans. “Then Stuart Davidson will be there. He’s a wee gobshite.”

“Callum!” exclaims Fiona.

“Well, he is,” he says stubbornly.

“Go and find your other boot. And some better language,” she says sternly.

“Who’s Stuart Davidson?” I ask as Callum disappears through the door.

“A wee gobshite,” says Fiona, to a bark of laughter from Ben that sounds overly loud. “And he’s going to be on particularly special form today when Doune wins.”

“What?” Callum is already back in the doorway, a boot in his hand. “Mum! We’re not going to lose again, are we?”

I glance at Fiona, expecting to hear I meant if, or one of the many encouraging things that any parent might say, but all she manages is, “Just play your best, wee man. Do that and you’ll have a great game.”

“Hey, Callum, shall I come and watch?” Ben says, in a transparent distraction attempt, but it works. Callum erupts in an enthusiastic cheer. “I’ll drive you, shall I?” Ben says to Fiona. “We can catch up.”

“Uh, sure. Thanks,” she says casually, but her gaze stays on him until Callum asks her for a water bottle. Then there’s a crescendo of noise and bustle as Callum, Fiona and Ben clear out of the kitchen, leaving Glen and me alone in the loudly silent farmhouse with Glen’s black Lab, Sheba, and a sleeping Toast. Glen smiles at me awkwardly. Since I arrived, he’s been gruffly welcoming and quietly, genuinely horrified by the circumstances. I can see that he can’t quite believe the bones can be those of his old friend, and yet he’s thinking what we are all thinking: who else could they belong to? All except Fiona, that is. I know she has always believed they are his.

“I’ve been meaning to show you something. I’ll be back in a second.” I nip off to my bedroom—Callum’s bedroom—and return with the box of my father’s research.