“Stad.” Stop. Sinjin walks out and, without stopping, crosses streets, goes down Abbey Walk to Castle Street and The Scores. The Scores calms him down. The trees fill him with the sound of the American golf course.

People line the streets—locals and foreigners and golfers. The sea is wild and torrid. He’s glad to be out of the cottage, trying to explain something too fragile to explain. He has never thought of Miriam as fragile. He winds his way back towards the cottage, walking at a slower pace. It is well past midnight.

He slams the door, paces across the living room. Steaphan and Brian wait him out.

“There’s a lot that gets people in trouble, freind, and prride is the worst.” Steaphan swirls a drop of whisky in his glass. “Go back.”

“And what?”

Brian stretches his hand over the coffee table as if making something flat.

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