‘It should do. In time. Rob’s so pleased,’ Ajay says, putting away the headset.

A part of her was hoping she could blame her funny turns on a still damaged fusiform gyrus. But if her brain is healing, it might not be playing tricks on her. And Rob might have been replaced by his double.

8

Jake

Jake snaps shut his laptop and looks around the cramped narrowboat. It’s not happening today. If he’s honest, it’s not happening every day. He thought he might write more after Kate left him, but his productivity has gone down, if that’s possible.

He locks up and steps onto the bank, glancing back at the boat. One end of the roof is piled up with logs seasoning for the winter, the other is covered with solar panels. All part of living off grid. He needs to water the flowerboxes down by the bow. They were planted with petunias by Kate and are dying.

The canal has a rare beauty this morning, layers of gossamer mist hanging above the surface of the water. A plump of moorhens retreats into the deep reedbeds on the far bank as he walks on down the towpath. Up ahead, Jake’s favourite bridge, a perfectly poised redbrick arch, reflects in the water to form a shimmering circle of sorts. It’s the one thing that keeps him going: this idyllic haven where he lives like a floating nomad.

The post office in the village has texted to say there’s a package for him. He enters with a spring in his step – maybe it’s a forgotten translation of one of his books? – and tries not to look at the croissants. He can’t even afford the gas to bake his own bread any more.

‘The usual?’ the woman behind the bakery counter asks, sliding one into a paper bag for him.

‘Not today, thanks,’ Jake says, sweeping back his long hair. His empty stomach rumbles in protest. ‘I think you’ve got a package for me.’

‘Here we go.’ She passes him a padded envelope.

Jake knows at once that it’s not a book. Too small. At least it’s not a bill. Or a court summons. He’s had too many of those recently. On his way out, he stops to look at the small ads: teenagers offering to babysit, mow lawns. He could do that. Easier than writing. His novels are only published in Finland now.