She’d already known this kiss was coming. She’d seen his hand stroke her cheek on the paper. Imagined her skin under his caressing fingers. They had spoken: she had understood him. She was already gone when she climbed this hill to find him.

“Please. Yvie, tell me.”

The sky is quiet.

“This isn’t right. My sweetheart, no . . .”

The distant water is dull and flat as lead.

“Please, Yvette, it can’t be true. Tell me, Yvie. Yvie?”

The shoreline swings away as I turn inland, ninety, one-eighty, three-sixty degrees—have I turned a full circle? I don’t know anymore. I’ve lost my compass bearing. I’ve lost my heading, my easting, my northing, my darling, my darling, my darling. Yvie, tell me you didn’t. Sweetheart, tell me it’s not so.

The trees are beginning to lose their shapes, become one frieze of darkness. Bailey’s lagging at last, weaving on exhausted legs, his head hanging. I lift him up and button him into my coat, curling one arm around him. There may not be enough light to last us all the way home but I can walk in the dark.

Headlights throw a long shadow down the lane in front of me, a man seemingly one-armed, very long-legged. My shadow dwindles fast, the roar of an engine mounts behind me, and I step aside onto the verge.

The vehicle slows and comes to a halt. The headlights make it impossible to see anything else. A voice I know calls, “James! I thought it was you!”

I can see the shine of her eyes and the outline of her face, that’s all.

“Hello, Ellen,” I say.

“Do you want a lift? It’s getting rather dark.”

I’m seized momentarily with the urge to laugh a laugh of despair. “It certainly is,” I agree.

When I climb into the vehicle she sees the dog’s head poking out from the open collar of my coat. “Oh, poor Bailey! Is he exhausted?”

“Yes.”

I pull on the seat belt, expecting her to turn the key in the ignition but instead she says, “James, your face . . . what’s happened?”

“A terrible thing.”

“Oh, dear.”

When I say nothing else, she restarts the engine. We travel for two, three minutes before I manage to speak again.

“It actually happened a long time ago, this thing. But I didn’t know until now.”

“Do you want to tell me what it is?”

“I can’t, I’m sorry. I can’t really bear to think about it, let alone talk.”

“I see.”

She continues to drive. I risk a glance at her. She’s wearing what looks like a very old coat. She nods, thinking about what I’ve said, but choosing not to press me with questions. The silence becomes calm.

“I wonder sometimes if I could drive these roads with my eyes shut,” she says after a while. “I know them so well.”