He is at the south bed by 06:40.

The mornings are longer now. By the time he has taken what he takes in the morning and walked from his room to the garden gate and worked the bolt-latch open, there is already light enough to see without the lamp. He does not use the lamp unless he has to.

The sweet peas are reaching.

He noticed the first tendril three days ago — moving in slow circles until it found something to hold. He had run a second length of jute between the uprights at fifteen centimetres, just in case. This morning the tendril has found it. The grip is light, exploratory, not yet committed. He crouches alongside the bed and ties in the two longest stems — soft twine, loose loops, working from the root upward. Not pulling, not correcting. He offers the string. The plant will do what it decides to do.

He is thinking about whether she has sent it.

Not deliberately. He is trying not to think about it, which amounts to the same thing. She had said: tomorrow. He had heard the footsteps on the gravel, the click of the gate, and then the city reasserting itself.

Tomorrow is today. He doesn’t know when.

He has never sent something that cost him something — or, he supposes, he has. A long time ago. Reports that were documented as technical concern, noted. A meeting in which three people said, in different ways, that they understood. That the system had trade-offs. That all systems had trade-offs. He had nodded and walked out and sent one more letter, which was the last one.

He finishes the twine and stands.

He stands for a moment with one hand braced on the post at the end of the bed. Not long. A breath. Then he moves.

The onion sets are coming through. Three in the first row — thin green shoots, curved and assertive, pressing through the surface as though they have somewhere to be. He crouches and checks the second row, the third. More sets showing. He makes a note of which positions have not broken through and marks them with a piece of stone.

The morning light is crossing the south bed at the angle it takes in April — low and direct, slow. He sits on the bench for a few minutes. He has not made coffee yet but that is all right. He sits and looks at the beds and the signal gantry and the rose doing its particular thing at the top strut.

Then he gets up and goes to the brassica rows.

The city moves around the perimeter wall. The morning works itself forward.

The sweet peas are reaching.