THE BEACH IS deserted. The grain ears dance to the tune of the southwesterly wind. It’s a calm, balmy day at the end of September. A flock of robins flies in a beautiful choreography of abstract shapes. Chris looks calmly out at the sea. He’s barefoot, with khaki pants rolled up a few times. He’s at the edge of the shore, the sea at his feet. Olivia, Ruby, Pony and I are walking along the beach and about to pass behind him. He turns. He looks at me, at us. I don’t need to look at him because I’ve already found him. Chris knows it, and he smiles. We pass by. He doesn’t follow us; he lets us go on, away, because he knows he won’t lose us anymore and that if we get lost, we always have a meeting point, up at the mill.