—Lovely out.
—My son used to call on Sundays.
—Four quarters. That's how long they hold the introductory rate.
—He sends pictures of his thumb now.
—My hip grinds when the boat lifts. Eight weeks I waited.
—Room at the rail? Crusts for the gulls.
—The bag's empty.
—They follow anyway.
—As the leaflet says: the best way to be believed is to say the difficult part first.
—Listen. My phone.
—That's the difficult part. After the four quarters.
—His name. Look.
—Don't lean. My hip.
—Let go of my wrist.
—Just till we're in. They said keep walking.
—I need that hand.
—We've all got something.
—Not up. Don't pull it up.
—The boat lifts. Hold tight.
—You've dropped it.
—Her phone. It's gone under the ferry.
—Don't lean over, pet.
—He was calling.
—They'll call again. They always do if they want something.
—There's your pontoon.
—I can't get my arm back.
—Mine's the next. You can sit down there.
—There. Are you steady?
—You saved me. I could have gone in.
—It had his name on it.
—They put a name on anything these days.
—I've kept a word for him. Eleven months. I wasn't going to spend it on a machine. It sits under my tongue at night. I check it with my teeth.
—
—Take a crust for the walk.
—It's empty.
—You're the first person who's really listened.
—Good crossing.
—Mind the hip.