Was his father up there, looking down on him…? No, probably not. Manolis had been raised in the Orthodox Church and dragged to Sunday services by his pious mother. He understood little of the ceremony but always stood and sat and crossed himself a few seconds after his mum. He now saw the Church in his life as more custom and tradition than anything religious. Maria was the opposite; she continued to light candles and recite ancient incantations and fast on holy days. But she knew no other way.

Con’s final phase began on a Wednesday. Manolis and Maria were summoned to the hospital, which hadn’t previously happened. A stony-faced senior doctor updated them on Con’s condition, frankly and without self-censorship. Con’s heart was failing, and he was unlikely to go home. Maria cried. She knew she was losing her life partner.

Gathering around the bed, the family watched its patriarch refuse all food and water. Con was soon seeing visions, including of those dearly departed: his mother, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins. He kept repeating the name ‘Dimitrios’, which confused mother and son alike. And then, the dreaded death rattle emerged from Con’s throat. By that stage, he was too weak to cough up the fluid filling his lungs. Manolis remembered it as perhaps the saddest moment: watching his father trying to make his body respond to the simplest request, and seeing it fail. Con now had no more anger at the world. Manolis was absolutely heartbroken to see it gone.

‘Ah, Baba,’ he said. ‘If only you were here with me now in Cobb. I’d like that, even if you might not.’

Feeling tired, insignificant beneath the heavens, Manolis extinguished his cigarette and retreated inside the cabin. He showered and fell asleep to the sound of exploding firecrackers punching holes in the night. He dreamt of thirst, of bashing on a vending machine somewhere in the town, trying to buy a cold drink to wet his whistle but unable to because something was stuck in the slot. He woke dehydrated, his sheets sweated through.

RETURNING TO THE station in the morning, Manolis saw a thin figure waiting on the steps. It was Sparrow, black and solemn like an undertaker. His left eye was darker than usual and horrendously more swollen, a knot the size of a hen’s egg, to the point of being closed over. He flicked his smoke and anxiously lit another.

‘Jesus,’ said Manolis, ‘what happened?’

Sparrow considered him with a reptilian gaze. He spat congealed blood onto the dry ground and dabbed at his split lip. ‘Nuthin’,’ he said flatly.

Manolis waved a clutch of flies from his face. ‘Oh right. You just woke up like that, did you?’