As his instincts had told him to roll forward when he realized the bike was going, he’d landed quite tidily in the very clear water on the back of his head and shoulders. Still conscious, and preternaturally calm, he momentarily registered the beauty of the pebbled bed as he lay in the freezing stream that ran rapidly away. It had a surprising slurping current, and was of a fair depth for a relatively small river. He was angry, but relieved to be able to feel all of his limbs: he was clearly not too seriously harmed except for the vicious throb in his thigh numbed by chill water. His helmet hadn’t come away completely, which he understood was a blessing, and he was aware enough to realize he should pull himself to the bank quickly or he would drown where he lay, in water deep enough for the purpose. The fierce determination of the river always impressed him, and it inspired once again his last reserves of strength as he dragged his body partially out of the water and onto the thin incline of the bank. He had enough clarity to recollect that he was only a mile or so from home before he suddenly felt nauseous and giddy, and slumped forward, passing out completely. In an icy dream, he heard the voice of an American girl telling him to “go for it,” and Alex’s voice: “Sorry, can you leave a message after the tone…” then the scream of the bike’s engine, like some demon lover’s wail.

Just beyond the end of the bridge, the blue Lancia was waiting. The door opened, and the tiny jewel-red warning light on its edge lit up. A fine pair of handmade shoes at the end of a pair of gray flannel trousers descended from the car, accompanied by the figure of a man in a camel coat. The form advanced toward the moaning bike, and a gloved hand dislodged the throttle from the ironwork on the bridge and fiddled with the key. In the profound silence that followed, the rustling of Will’s tank bag seemed deafening. He opened it quickly and examined its contents. A dog at a farm somewhere along the road started barking furiously. Ignoring the sound, he walked over to the end of the bridge and around the barrier fence toward the point where Will lay, still half submerged in the icy stream. There was a film of steam above the water, where the air and water temperatures collided. Visibility was very limited. With his foot the man rolled Will’s inert body onto its back, and started to bend over him. Safe in the knowledge that the mist was obscuring them from any observer, he ignored the sound of someone stirring in a cottage, perhaps six hundred feet away in the whiteness. But then voices could be heard a little nearer, above the sound of a barking dog.