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recycling bin.
    She puts the plate down and gets onto her knees, scraping the papers up, stretching under the table to scoop the recycling back into the bin. Greg is normally meticulous about his paperwork, but he is working ridiculous hours – no wonder he has let things slip. She reaches for a stray sheet of paper and smooths it out, not sure if it was meant for the recycling.
    There are just three short sentences, in tight, looping handwriting, unsigned.
    *
    I saw your picture.
    Years have passed, but I’d recognize your face anywhere.
    I STILL SEE YOU IN MY NIGHTMARES.

Chapter Four
     
    The next morning when she goes downstairs, Greg is at the kitchen sink, rinsing out a bowl. He hears her and turns – his face is drawn but alert, as if he’s been waiting for her. Through the window behind him she sees a gust of wind fling small orange leaves at the mottled sky.
    She goes over and kisses him. ‘When did you get home last night? I waited and waited but I must have fallen asleep; I didn’t even hear you come in.’ She rubs her eyes and glances at the kitchen clock. ‘Wait – it’s 7.30; why are you’re still here?”
    Usually, by this time, he’d have had his run, his shower, and been at the hospital for an hour, preparing for the weekly conference, going through the procedures he has scheduled for that day, catching up on paperwork. But he is still in pyjama bottoms and a grey T-shirt.
    ‘I’m going in a little later today.’ His eyes look sunken, his face is rumpled, his olive skin unusually pallid. She wonders if he has slept at all.
    ‘Are you OK?’ she says.
    ‘What?’ He places the bowl carefully on the draining board. ‘No, no, I’m fine.’
    She remembers the note then, goes to get it from the wire tray by the toaster. She unfolds it and slides it across the countertop. ‘Look. This is why I was waiting up for you – didn’t you get my voicemail yesterday? I found this with your recycling. What on earth is it?’
    He turns, drying his hands on a tea towel, and looks down at the paper.
    ‘I almost threw it out.’ She waits for him to pick the note up but he carries on rubbing his hands. She can sense the thoughts travelling fast behind his calm face.
    ‘
I still see you in my nightmares
? What does that mean, Greg? Who sent this to you?’
    He tosses the towel onto the counter, takes the paper and crunches it in his fist. ‘I wish you wouldn’t touch my papers; they’re all in order.’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous. What is this, Greg?’
    ‘It’s nothing, really, just some crazy who’s seen the announcement of my appointment, or maybe the prize.
    ‘Some crazy? What’s that supposed to mean?’
    He throws the ball of paper into the bin. ‘It means that the world is full of unstable individuals. Especially the medical world.’
    ‘Have you had this sort of letter before and not told me?’
    ‘Of course I haven’t.’
    ‘But you were throwing it away – weren’t you even going to tell me?’
    ‘It’s nothing.’
    ‘It’s not nothing. Who would recognize your face? Who sees you in their nightmares? Greg?’
    He turns back to the sink, ‘I have no idea, Tess. My guess is that it’s a mentally ill person who has seen my picture on the hospital website. The news about my appointment and the surgical prize is all over it. The prize has been reported in other places too. I really don’t know who wrote it and right now I have far more pressing things to worry about.’
    He opens a packet of coffee beans, tips them into his grinder and turns it on, cutting off further conversation.
    She waits until he switches it off. ‘Aren’t you going for your run today?’
    ‘Not today, no. I have a bit of a hamstring strain; I thought I’d take it easy for a few days.’
    She reaches past him for the muesli. ‘Your new running mate’s going to be disappointed then.’
    ‘My what?’
    ‘Our neighbour?’
    ‘What neighbour?’ He scrapes the coffee into the cup of the espresso machine