The wipers need replacing. I pull out into traffic, hear the angry bleat of a horn behind us, take a deep breath and focus on the road. Light from oncoming headlamps shatters in the tracks left by the wiper blades, a bedazzlement like sunlight on ice. After a moment I risk a sidelong glance. Patrick has settled back and closed his eyes, as though waiting for a thaw. Droplets on his hair, his face—the miracle of rain. I look back to the road. He doesn’t speak till we reach the river.