Amy's POV
The kitchen was quiet around us. The late afternoon light did its usual thing with the window, the amber of it, the particular quality of autumn in a room with yellow walls. I thought about the corridor, I'll protect you, and the way I'd categorised it at the time as strategy, as terms of the arrangement, as the logical currency of a transaction.
I was running out of places to put things that didn't fit the categories I'd assigned them.
"Thank you," I said.
He nodded once and picked up his mug and the evening continued.
Mark left on a Thursday.
He told me the night before a business trip to Glasgow, something to do with the depot network, four days. He delivered this information with the brevity of someone conveying the minimum required, left a fold of cash on the kitchen
