Chapter 11: A Lovely Shirt

Daniel's right hand was still wet.

He held it in his lap, palm up, under the edge of his jacket, as the van door slid open and his uncle came down the steps with his arms wide.

"Nephew. You look well. You look better than well."

"Uncle."

"I've brought someone. I hope that's all right."

Rachel stood a pace behind him, with her hands clasped in front of her.

She had cut her hair.

It was the first thing Daniel noticed, and the stupidest. It had been long, and now it was at her jaw, and it suited her.

"Hello, Daniel," she said.

His whole body had gone very still.

He had thought about this moment for fourteen months, and in every version he had known what to say.

He said, "Rachel."

"You're outside," she said, and her voice cracked. "I didn't think I'd ever see you outside again."

She stepped forward, and held out her hand to shake.

It was a kind gesture, and a careful one.

Daniel looked at it.

Then he looked at the hand in his own lap, which was not clean, and which he could not possibly explain.

"I'm sorry, I can't," he said. "My hand."

"Of course." She reached into her bag at once. "Here."

She held out a small packet of disinfectant wipes, the blue ones, the brand he had used since he was nineteen.

"I kept some," Rachel said, almost shyly. "I never stopped buying them."

Daniel took one.

His fingers were not quite steady.

Behind him, Johnny climbed down from the van and shut the door.

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