In the Rose Hill sports village, Abigail was sitting on the grass smoking a silent cigarette and getting towards the end of Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn.
As I approached, quietly as I only could, she turned around and looked up at me. There was a certain deafness in her eyes, charmed and pretty in the setting sun, and I realised that for a few seconds, maybe minutes, I would be a character in her book.
I confessed. She smiled.