He looked down. His gnarled and dirt-crusted nails carefully rotating the matchbox, the sound of surf smashed on the shore behind him. His brown back cooled by a breeze, broad with muscle taught from toiling in the burning sun. His index finger pushed the inner match tray out of the box. A memory escaped like a perfume. Inside was a yellowing note wrapped crudely in cellophane and taped at either end to waterproof it. On the paper someone had typed in a straight line ‘I just heard you’re still alive so if you’re reading this say your prayers cos I’m coming for you’.