She reached up to a shelf just above the curtain and her belly grazed Peter’s knee. She passed Peter a mug and a scrunched up old T-shirt and stepped out of the booth. The T-shirt was dusty and wrinkled so Peter placed it across his lap and started to iron out the creases with the flat of his hand. He felt Marge watching him.

“You’re real excited for this, aren’t you?”

Peter looked up, suddenly unsure of why there was any embarrassment in saying yes.

“I’ve always wanted to work in a movie theatre.”

“No, not that. Life before.”

“I guess.” Then, after a moment, “Yes, so much. But I know some of the people I grew up with loved it on the lake. When my dad didn’t know I was there, I’d catch him standing outside the tree house, or down by the water’s edge, looking out across the water into the forests, wondering what was out there, what was coming, never knowing from one day to the next whether the Dead would find us or just the wind, and I think part of him secretly enjoyed it. Not just him either. Bud in his rocking chair. Mr Schmidt in his canoe. My dad never talked about it, no one ever did, and I guess admitting such a thing would disregard Mom’s memory and all the other people the Dead took away from us. But underneath it all, there was a gladness for it. To be there on the lake, I mean. I don’t know why. But not me. No. I was never cut out for it.”

“And what are you cut out for?”

Peter shook his head. “A quiet life, I guess.”

Marge mumbled something under her breath.

“You know?” said Peter. “Qualifications, prospects, a job and a home with nice things to show for it.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds like you got it all figured out.”

“Maybe.” Then, “Yes. I’ve thought a lot about it. Why?”

Marge shook her head. “No reason.”

But there was an edge in her tone, a distaste for his excitement even, that Peter couldn’t place. He continued flattening the T-shirt across his lap and an awkward silence passed between them. Perhaps Marge had lost loved ones back then as most people had at the advent of the new world and the thought of returning to normal held too many ghosts for her. Peter swung his chair round, looking out on to the street. As far as he was concerned, the world that was before had always been a fantasy, stolen away from him by the cruel timing of his birth. But for many, he supposed, the past must just be a graveyard.

Peter turned back. “I hope I haven’t said anything to offend you.”

“Your excitement gets wearing.”

“Sorry, I was just trying to—”

“You get sixty dollars a day after tax. Half an hour for lunch; unpaid.”

“OK.”