--Victor? I looked up when I heard when I heard my name but I couldn't see a thing. I was sitting near the open door and the light coming through was a solid sheet between me and whoever had spoken. My eyes were watering a bit - they did that. I often felt that they were melting slowly in my head. --Am I right? It was a man. My own age, judging by the shape, the black block he was making in front of me now, and the slight rattle of middle age in his voice. I put the cover over the screen of my iPad. I'd been looking at my wife's Facebook page. I could see him now. There were two men on the path outside, smoking, and they'd stood together in the way of the sun. I didn't know him. --Yes, I said. --I thought so, he said.--Jesus. For fuck sake. I didn't know what to do. --It must be - fuckin' - forty years, he said.--Thirty-seven or -eight, anyway. You haven't changed enough, Victor. It's not fair, so it isn't. Mind if I join you? I don't want to interrupt anything. He sat on a stool in front of me. --Just say and I'll fuck off. Our knees almost touched. He was wearing shorts, the ones with the pockets on the sides for shotgun shells and dead rabbits. --Victor Foreman, he said. --Forde. --That's right, he said.--Forde. I had no idea who he was. Thirty-eight years, he'd said; we'd have known each other in secondary school. But I couldn't see a younger version of this man. I didn't like him. I knew that, immediately.