A ring of days is forged by night.

The world around begins to harden as autumn grits its teeth.

The morning air is sharp; everything green is brittled by frost.

Maxine darts about a large hall with a wooden floor. There is deep breathing and the scootch of rubber shoes as soft legs turn and balls bounce madly between grasping hands.

“That’s it! Now hold your balls! Good, Gareth! Good, Maxine! Doris, where’s your ball?”

Jeremy, the father, is at work. There is the writing of numbers, and the writing of sentences. Dosing and deliberation. The goal is a common goal. Beyond that, nobody really knows. Then a fizz from his pocket. It’s his wife, her name and photograph pulse on the screen as he taps a button to release her voice.

“Jeremy?”

“Everything okay, darling?”

“Are you busy?”

“No, I’ve got four hours until my next patient. What’s up?”

“I’m not feeling well.”

“Oh no. Maybe you picked up the sniffles from Maxine?”

“No, not like that.”

“Oh . . .”

“I didn’t know who else to call. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s why I’m here. It’s part of being your husband.”

“It’s not something I can control.”

“Look, it’s lunchtime. Why don’t I leave the office and pick you up in a half hour?”

“No, it’s okay. I’m okay. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Did something happen?”

“No.”

“Just a feeling, huh?”

“Today is his birthday.”

Jeremy senses something small and hot, a meteor blazing words. But he says nothing, lets the moment cool to rock, then fall where he will never find it.

“How old would he have been?”

“It doesn’t matter . . .”

The sound of her breathing fills the space between them. Language is a map leading to a place not on the map.

“Why don’t I come and get you?” he says. “We could have lunch at the Lotos Club or go play a few games of tennis, maybe you’ll even let me win one.”

“I’m okay.”

“You don’t sound okay.”

“I think I just needed to tell someone.”

“I should have remembered.”

“No, it’s not like I remember your mother’s birthday. I’m just so sorry to put you through this, over and over,” she says. “I mean, it’s been eight years for god’s sake.”

Loving the dead is like moss growing on stone.

“Oh, I don’t mind, honey. Remember that all my happiness is because of him.”

The woman feels her heart ripping, but only to reveal a new one, which in turn must be torn up.

“Think of us as a team,” he tells her. “The four of us on a mission.”

She blows her nose, even laughs a little. “But what’s the mission?”

“Well, that’s the exciting part, isn’t it?”

“Exciting is one way to put it, I suppose.”