This Must Be the Place

by Maggie O'Farrell

I am also shouting at the top of my voice. There’s something about living in the middle of nowhere that invites this indulgence.

“The witching hour,” Daniel always called this time of day. He used to go out in it, every evening, and have a last cigarette as he walked the perimeter of the garden. He liked the moment, he said, when it was neither day nor night, but indefinably both.