“Mr Fry, Queenie has no family. No friends. When people have no one to stay for, they tend to pass quickly. We have been hoping for your call.”

“I see.” He could barely speak. He could only listen. Even his blood was still and cold.

“After you rang, we all noticed the change in Queenie. It was very marked.”

He saw a body on a stretcher, stiff with not living. He felt what it was to be too late to make a difference. He said with a hoarse whisper, “Yes.” And then, since she said nothing, he said again, “Well, of course.” He slumped his forehead against the glass of the booth, followed by his palm, and closed his eyes. If only it was simple to stop feeling.

The woman gave a fluttery noise, like a laugh, but it surely couldn’t be. “We’ve never seen anything like it. Some days she sits up. She shows us all your postcards.”

Harold shook his head, not understanding. “I’m sorry?”

“She’s waiting, Mr Fry. Like you said she should.”

A cry of joy shot out of him, and took him by surprise. “She’s alive? She’s getting better?” He laughed, not meaning to, but it grew bigger, spilling out in waves as tears moistened his cheeks. “She’s waiting for me?” He threw open the door of the kiosk and punched the air.

“When you rang and told us about your walk, I was afraid you’d misunderstood the gravity of things. But, you see, I was wrong. It’s a rather unusual kind of healing. I don’t know how you came up with it. But maybe it’s what the world needs. A little less sense, and a little more faith.”

“Yes. Yes.” He was still laughing. He couldn’t stop.

“May I ask how the journey is going?”

“Well. Very well. Yesterday, or maybe the day before, I stayed in Old Sodbury. I also passed Dunkirk. Now I believe I am in Nailsworth.” Even that was funny. The voice was chuckling too.

“One wonders where these names all come from. When should we expect you?”

“Let me think.” Harold blew his nose, and mopped the last of his crying away. He looked at his watch, wondering how quickly he could get a train, and how many different connections it would take. Then once again he pictured the space between himself and Queenie: the hills, the roads, the people, the sky. He saw them as he had done on that first afternoon, but now there was a difference; he placed the image of himself among them. He was a little broken, a little tired, his back to the world, but he wouldn’t let Queenie down. “In about three weeks. Possibly more or indeed less.”

“Goodness.” The voice laughed. “I’ll tell her that.”

“And tell her not to give up. Tell her I will keep walking.” He was laughing again because she was.