The cool, clear air in the orchard. He walks between the trees. Their shadows on the pale grass. He has no shadow. He is unseen. The fallen fruit and the fruit flies buzzing. The air feels chill in his throat. He is a ghost.
Back at a version of the old shop. Bob Dylan’s Neighbourhood Bully plays on the stereo. Martine, Olivia and Jo-Anna are laying in a friendly heap on the floor. Martine says that the lyrics are made irrelevant because they reference the past (a past that she can have no knowledge of). “This song sounds so dated,” she says. “Perhaps if the words mentioned Ice-T you would understand them more clearly?” I say. “Who?” she says. I realise that this is a pointless and dated reference, but I cannot for the life of me summon any other name.
Jo-Anna is making a pot of coffee. But she is (I remember) dead and cannot quite recall the process: she pours water into a cup, she puts ground coffee beneath the filter; the filter is upside down, etc. I hold a cup and wait. This goes on for sometime and we are laughing.
A complex of tiny rooms, cupboards actually. They are crowded with people trying to hide from black uniformed nazis who are searching the building. Dogs bark and there is the sound of machine-pistols echoing in the distance. At every door I am refused entry. I run down endless the corridors.