"We'd fucking fall off the swing," Effy imagines, and if she wanted to look deeper into it, perhaps that would've been a source for more melancholy, to know that even in the smallest ways, the movement of one can't be followed by the other. For the time being, however, Effy thinks that it isn't bad to stop and hold still for those one cares the most about; she's more than happy to stop now, simply sitting on the swing, head tilting back and forth as the breeze picks up around them, strands of hair writhing by her cheeks as her arm snakes out around Elvis' waist.

He reminds her of everyone from home, and yet no one at all. Hope always ran short in Bristol.