Salvia doesn’t tell him where they’re going. The morning mist hasn’t lifted by the time they leave the house and it’s hard to see much of where they walk; although he knows the streets well enough from memory, even without looking.

The fog forms enormous cocoons in places. They hide within these low-lying pockets. When they reach the park railings he peers into the smudged enclosure and complains, "I can’t see any of the neighbourhood buffalo today. Or the bears." Salvia sympathises. "Never mind, but one or two of the ostriches are out and about." She points to a couple of topiaried bushes. They get to the park gates with white stone spheres atop and she adds, "I wonder how they got up there to lay their eggs?"

The cold moist air brings a return of Solomon’s rattled cough. She hasn’t heard him do that in a while. Salvia finds a stick that looks as though it’s been dropped by a dog. She picks it up and runs it along the rails. "We could go and play Pooh sticks after we’ve done this..."

"Whatever ‘this’ is, " Solomon mumbles.