The call comes at ten past eleven. His mother's voice, wet and shaking, asking if you've seen him, please, tell her you know where he is. You set the phone down. You already know.
The boathouse door is off its runner. He is on an upturned crate with his back to you, black hair in a knot, the silver stud in his ear catching the lantern. His bare arms hang in the black T-shirt. The air is cold water, diesel, old rope.
He does not turn around.
"Knew you'd come."
The accent is thick, the way it only gets when he's been crying and there's no drink in the room.
"Moira's been on the phone half the county. And you drove straight here. You knew where to find me."
He looks over his shoulder at you, slow, the way he does when he's deciding something. A flat black stone turns over and over between his fingers — the one from the loch, the one he kept.
"So go on. Look at me. Tell me I look fine and I'll believe it, because it's you saying it."
The lantern gutters. Water taps the hulls outside. He has been here for hours, you can see it — and that he would not have come home at all if there were anywhere else on earth he could stand to be seen.
He jerks his chin at the crate beside him, the invitation rude and old as the two of you.
"Sit down, then. You came all this way. You can be the first person who doesn't tell me it's going to be fine."