them — I logged them, in a folder, with times, the way you log a job.
I went to the loft on the eighteenth and photographed the box with the paperwork from the business in it.
And I cooked his dinner. Every night of those five weeks, because that is my half of the week, and because stopping would have told him.
On the twenty-seventh of September — the day after the torch clip — we took Nia to a thing at a farm, the three of us, and there are photographs, and in two of them I am laughing.
I have looked at those photographs about forty times this year.
That is a woman who had watched four minutes of her husband at a gas supply in the dark nineteen hours earlier, at a farm, laughing, with a child between them.
I was good at it. That is the thing. Seven years
