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Before we return north, we visit the seed vault to check the temperature. It’s sitting at minus ten, and the water from the tunnel has started seeping under the seal on the door. On top of which, the concrete cancer Rowan identified has spread substantially.

“Four weeks until the boat?” she asks.

I nod.

“I don’t think it’ll make it. Not without some repairs.”

“I thought this vault wasn’t your problem.”

She faces me, impatient. “Well since I’m the only one here who seems to be taking this issue seriously, I guess I’d better get to work on it. I’m gonna need tools. And another laborer.”

On the walk home I think a lot about what she said in the field hut. I’m not the only one pulled in another direction. What disturbs me is not the truth of this statement, but that Rowan knows it. For the last few nights I have been telling myself that if there is a reason she and I could never… become , that reason is Hank. Honestly I’ve been telling myself that since the day we replaced the roof and she told me of her house. Then I told myself it was my kids, it was Rowan not wanting kids. Two problems beyond my power to solve. But as we walk across Shearwater, headed north to our lighthouse, I wonder if those things have simply been excuses.

If they were not problems, would I be free to love her? Truly, and with all of myself?

My wife moves at my side. Just the warm rustle of her. A light touch of her fingers on mine.