Standing on the fourth tee, the sun now sinking slowly through the skies and the breeze of the mid-afternoon coming off the land, Thomas lit a cigarette. He offered one to Rory.

   “Thank you.”

   His gaze now settled on the thin ribbon of sand that divided land from sea. Thomas drew on the cigarette, blowing its smoke into the thin, crystal air.

   “The last time I played this course, I played with Robbie.”

   “Robbie?”

   “Our son.”

   Thomas dropped his cigarette onto the thick, patched grass, pulling the Nicoll from his bag.

   “He’s in France. Along with the rest of the world.”

   On the shortest day of the year, the light dies quickly. The sun that had once been no more than a pale yellow ghost was now hardening into the bloody circle of the western skies, falling toward their horizon. Rory clubbed an easy, slow pitch toward a shadowed green.

   “You said your name was Gibson.”

   “I did,” said Thomas.

   “Then I know your son.”