In the aftermath of the war, newly adrift and questioning, he’d found rare solace in long joyrides on the broom. Breakneck speed, of course. Risky manoeuvring. He’d travelled far, farther than he knew, on account of never keeping track of his travels: the whole point was to stop himself thinking for as long as he could make it last. Before cold, or hunger, or some other importune bodily alarm brought him back to reality.