The spring of 1971.
I have an errand in town. I arrive in the morning and am only staying for a few hours.
Before I catch my train back, I have time to go into a pub by the station and drink a beer.
The place is packed. Smoky and the sour smell of beer.
The darts whirl through the smoke and hit the board. Clattering, glasses, jostling.
Oskar is dead.
And now for the future.
Exactly as he said.