He watches the workman mixing the concrete. It seems expertly done. Harry in turn commits it to paper: the wet slap of the worked mixture, the warmth of the afternoon sun on the backs of his hands, the flits of sparrows in the violet sky. He draws it all into a letter to Edie that she might never open. “Don’t really stop writing to me, will you?” she had said once. How could she ever imagine that he might stop? He stares at the page of writing in front of him, the paper too brightly white. His skin feels tight with the sun.

The waiter from the bar takes a beer across for the workman. He stands, straightens, arches his back, and raises the glass across the road. Harry watches as men come and go; all seem to feel duty-bound to ask questions, to approve the design, and to distract the workman from his labor and from keeping the concrete from drying out. The workman wipes foam from his mustache and gestures thanks in the café’s general direction. Men pat his back as he carries his empty glass across. He shakes the hand of a young man in a black waistcoat. The young man walks on to Harry’s table. He recognizes Gabriel’s eyes under the brim of his hat.

“It’s all happening. Already.”

Gabriel nods. “I am glad to see you,” he says.

The road climbs out of the village and then descends, through scrub oaks, to the farm. Gabriel takes off his hat and wipes sweat from his face. Harry sees that his green eyes are ringed with red.

“How was it?” he asks.

“Coming back?”

“Yes.”

“My mother cried, my father does not know me, my brother is—and is not—everywhere, and Madeleine is making hay. How was Ypres?”

“Too full of memories. My brother is—and is not—everywhere. We didn’t find anything.”

“And Edie?”

“She’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“She left. She’s gone back to England, I think. I don’t know if I’ll see her again.”

“But why? What happened? You can’t let that happen.”

“I don’t know that I have a choice.”

“But you always have a choice.”

“I think she genuinely believes that my brother might still be alive.” They stand at a fork in the road and Gabriel shakes his head. “Do you know of a village called Saint-Christophe du Quercy?” Harry asks.

“Yes. Of course. It is south of here. An hour’s journey away.”

“Will you take me there?”

“If you wish it. But why do you want to go there?”

“Because I need to know if my brother is alive.”