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‘Jesus. How many?’

‘Nine hundred and forty-five.’

‘Hang on, I’ll write that one down. Nine-four-five. And I’m not doing anything?’

‘No. Nothing. You’re breathing. But, no.’

Imogen-on-the-phone thought for a moment.

‘It’s funny,’ she said. ‘It only bothers me when you tell me the numbers; the rest of the time it’s like the camera thing isn’t, well, I don’t mean it bothers me really, but you know.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Actually, it is bothering me now I’m thinking about it. I’m waving at them.’

‘You should.’

‘I’m doing it right now.’

Imogen-on-the-screen lay fast asleep. In . . . out . . . in . . . out . . .

‘I’ll wave back when it comes up,’ I said.

‘You’re lovely.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I do miss you, you know.’

‘I miss you too. How’s it going?’

‘God. Slowly.’

Imogen had been on the other side of the world for almost six months. She was working as part of a research team looking for one small spot on a very remote island, where the single most important act in the entire history of humanity might have taken place. Because this was the twenty-first century, the research facility had webcams.