The car left at ten past ten.
Matteo had wanted ten exactly and it was ten past because I had not been able to find the second boot in the dark of the bedroom and had spent four minutes on my knees looking under the bed for it while the clock on the nightstand counted the minutes with its small, indifferent luminescence, and when I came downstairs with both boots on Matteo was standing at the door with his jacket and his keys and the specific contained energy of a man who had been ready for some time and had decided not to say so.
He looked at my boots.
He said nothing.
We got in the car.
Dane was driving. This was different from every other car journey I had been in with Matteo where Dane occupied the passenger seat or a separate vehicle entirely, and the difference of it registered,
