He took in the sight a moment longer, then carried on along the waterfront, the aroma of sea salt and Colombian coffee mingling in the air as the wharfies heaved sacks of beans from their freighters. The docks were quietening now, just the usual lighters steaming along the river, ferrying cargo from the larger freight ships to the piers, workers hauling the goods into waiting vans. In the hours before dawn the area would have been in a frenzy; it was then that Theo and his childhood friends had come to watch hardy crews unload their fishing boats and crate the catches with ice, ready for the Fulton Fish Market. Even now, dozens of trucks were still being loaded, destined for markets and restaurants across the city and upstate.

He knew he had better turn around soon—the taxi was still waiting—but something drove him on. His boots scraped across splintered planks while great gulls circled overhead, screeching their orders at the fishing vessels and their crews. After a few minutes, he found a sheltered spot and lit a cigarette. He was right to feel circumspect; this wasn’t just about Partridge, it was about his work for the council, and about his father, and Alice and Virginia, and letting people down. He’d already failed to serve his country in the way he’d wanted to, and in the way that Howie had; he didn’t want to fail again.

Theo glanced at his watch and took a final pull on his cigarette before grinding it into the plank; his ten minutes had passed, and he needed to visit the hospital and then attend meetings uptown before an early dinner with Virginia. He turned back along the boardwalk, churning with anger at himself and resentment toward Walter. He still had no idea what to do.

Samuel Bloom sat dozing in a high-backed chair, an open book in his lap, his glasses barely balanced on the end of his nose, and the sight of him made Theo smile. He could have been at home in his armchair, the radio blaring sports commentary in the background as his wife volleyed inaudible questions at him from the next room. Only he wasn’t there, he was still here at the Brooklyn Methodist, thirteen days after his life-threatening episode. The two drip stands had gone from his bedside, and the table held transparent beakers of fluids, a basket of fruit and an assortment of cards. It was quiet, apart from the uneven snore of the patient in the bed opposite and the disconsolate whirr of hospital machinery.

The two other beds on the ward were vacant, mattresses eerily bare, a new pile of linen stacked portentously on the pillow, but Theo knew better than to ask what had become of the previous patients when Sister Dorothy arrived on the ward.

“How is he today?” Theo asked.