As I cycled across town, to the dump, to the farm, as I cycled back up the hill to my brother’s house, I thought often about life and its chance encounters, the inexorable question of complicity, about how not one of us could claim to be innocent any longer. I thought that naivety, though it had long proven useful in protecting one from facing facts more squarely than it suited, was more inexcusable, more repugnant than ever.
