He looked up at the electronic-display sign, so much more efficient than the painted ones they’d used when he was younger. These were updated every second it seemed, for the 10.13 was on time again – it had made up some distance. He had eight minutes left to wait, and he was alone on the bench. Nobody had sat beside him, and there was orange peel on his knee.

A boy in school uniform stopped in front of him, wheeling a bicycle. Without thinking, Michael said, ‘You’re running late,’ and the boy smiled nervously.

His instinct was to smile, even at a stranger.

Michael wondered why he’d spoken. All he’d meant was that at close to ten o’clock the boy was going to be late: a simple statement of fact. He was fourteen at the most, and dressed in the burgundy-coloured blazer of the academy one stop down, so it was safe to assume he wouldn’t get there until half past or so. On the other hand, it wasn’t safe to assume he was late, because there were many possible reasons for him missing the first two hours, and Michael realised he couldn’t possibly know the facts and therefore shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. The boy’s parents might have arranged their son’s unavoidable absence. They might have come from the doctor’s, or the hospital – the boy might have been visiting a loved one who had just had an operation, though surely visiting wouldn’t take place in the morning unless it was urgent?

The boy had moved on. He was now checking his phone, so maybe it had been urgent.

‘Who is it?’ Michael wanted to say. ‘Is it someone close?’

‘My gran.’

Just a moment of connection.

The boy’s eyes were filling with tears. The bike was gone, and he was beside Michael on the bench.

‘Don’t talk if you don’t want to.’

‘I do want to, mister. I feel like I’ve got to.’

The boy was himself, of course. Michael found he was nodding again, and he slipped an arm around his younger self’s shoulders. Where was his friend, though? Where was dear old James? Because they’d caught the train together most mornings. Michael, James and Luke, who got on at the next station – they’d been close, with fine biblical names like three young disciples. Yatin was the fourth, whose mother and father were dentists. Four friends, inseparable in their smart blazers, black rather than burgundy: they looked out for each other, fighting off the bullies and getting into scrapes – what larks they’d had, learning about the world.

‘Did you do the maths?’

‘God, it was hard.’

‘It’s not in until Friday, is it?’ It was probably James who’d said that, for he was just that little bit disorganised.

‘Maths is today, James! The deadline’s today! Copy mine…’