He had sat me down in his field. Tall grass all around us. The sound of insects. The pulsating rumble of harvesters in the distance. A dog had come to sniff us. But then there was a bird. I had told him what I had to tell him. That I wasn’t made for this place. He listened silently. I had no gravity. My mind wandered away from the objects people cared about. The fast cars, slow churches, light gossip over beers. I was flirting with a ghost I would never become, he said. He pressed his hand around my wrist. It was warm. It made me change my mind. Until he let go. I told him he should come. Despite the old stories. The stories that were too long to tell. We might be different in a different place. But some people like to keep their ideas of such places just so. She’s taking you in for the wrong reasons, he suddenly said, and, you’ll see, she’ll wear you out, with her lips and her hips and her gold-plated Picasso jewellery. I shook my head, I’ve got her address here for you. I extended an arm. And then without antlers I bounded away. The story could take a turn up ahead. It could be written in the last breath. He was wrong about the future ghost; he was wrong about our final draft.