The drive takes forty minutes and Felix sits in the back with Arlo.
By the time we hit the motorway they have reached an understanding that involves Felix's left hand available for Arlo at all times and Arlo's chin on Felix's knee in exchange. Felix does not comment on this. He looks out the window at England going green and wide and occasional and plays something quietly under his breath that has no lyrics, just sound, like he is warming up for something he has not decided yet.
Rhys drives.
I have my feet on the dashboard.
"You always do that," Rhys says.
"It is my feet," I reply.
"It is my dashboard."
"Our dashboard," I say.
He says nothing because there is nothing to say to that.
The building appears at the end of the private road the way it always does, sud
