Milo called Jasper’s parents from a bank of telephones on Victor Hugo Street. Talked long enough to tell his mother where they were and that Jasper was unwell. When they came they did not look at Milo, would not speak to him. Would not take his help in getting Jasper downstairs and into a cab.

The horror of having desired that boy could still keep him up nights; the hollow awful feeling of watching Jasper’s face, fascinated by the news footage. He’d seen the debris, the filth of remains, but couldn’t feel what it had done to flesh; he could barely feel his own pain let alone that of others. The shame of how deeply Milo had loved and despised him was only beginning in those days on the island.

“Do you need to see a doctor?” Milo asked.

Bridey looked up, startled. “For what?”

“‘For what,’” Milo said back to her. “We gonna never talk about it? How far along are you?”

She held up one of his blue spiral-bound notebooks. “A few pages in. It’s really good.”

“Com’ed, stop it, Bridey.”

She was silent. The wind was moaning again and waves crashed up the side of the cliff, breaking and spraying. She went back to reading his work.

When she finally spoke she said, “What are we going to do about Murat?”