Half an hour later you see something pale in the road and brake. You stop six feet away and get out. It’s a sneaker. You pick it up and look round. Lights come toward you from a long way off. You stand there and wait. The lights approach and turn into four motorbikes. They keep accelerating and race past, only a few feet away from you. One of the drivers gives you the finger, then they’re gone. You stand there, holding the sneaker. Every fiber in your body is in flames. You can’t move. You see the skid marks on the tarmac. A car has gone into a swerve here and then stopped on the dotted line.

Right here.

You look to the right, it hurts, every inch hurts, but you leave the road and look through the bushes. Shoe prints on the damp earth. Further off, a rock. Something keeps you from going over there. You go over there. Blood on the soil, blood on the stone. Someone’s been sitting here. You should get back to the road. You walk around the rock, and there lies your son with his face pressed into the damp soil. His arms are bent and lie close to his body, his hands have clawed into the soil next to his head as if he wanted to cling onto it. Beside his hips you see deep prints made by knees. Whoever was sitting on your son was stopping him from moving.

You turn him over. His eyes are open, his eyes are full of dirt. You wipe the dirt carefully away with your thumbs, you close his eyes. And look at him. And look at him. You sit down on the ground and put the sneaker on him. You make a bow, it goes wrong, you make it again, and only then do you wipe the rest of the dirt out of his face. Reach into his mouth. Take the soil out. Run your finger over his lips. He’s clean now.

You wait.

You don’t look at the sky, you don’t murmur a prayer. You’re a man whose dead son is lying next to him, and nothing else is ever going to happen in this world. No disaster will be unleashed because of it, no one will set himself on fire, no pop star will write a song.

In the trunk of the Range Rover you find a blanket. You wrap Marten up in it and carry him to the car. After you’ve laid him down on the backseat, you take your jacket off and put it under his head. You want him to be comfortable, it’s his last journey. You close the door and stand beside the car in a T-shirt that belonged to your son. He lent it to you and dared you to wear it for a whole day. Today is that day. A white cross in a circle on a black background. Like you see on ballots. And under that the word deselected. You look very silly. Like someone who’s become something he never wanted to be.

You get back into the car and are about to start the engine when the shaking begins. First your jaw, your teeth chatter against each other, then it wanders downward, and within seconds your whole body is shaking so hard that you have to hold on tight to the steering wheel. Your balls contract painfully as if trying to hide in your abdomen, your guts want to spill their contents, you control them, you control yourself, the car rocks, the shaking turns into a hurricane that rushes through your life and drags away everything that isn’t nailed or bolted down. Including your son.

A few minutes later you’re calm and bathed in sweat. The windows are covered with condensation from inside, the car stands still. You carefully peel your fingers off the steering wheel and reach for the ignition key. The peace remains. You start the engine, put the car in gear. The car starts moving. You lower the window, the wind cools the sweat on your face. The monster in the deep jolts awake and rises to the surface. The Traveler is on the road once more.