I run past a sandstone wall and come back to the entry. Staring at the large house number 88 with its warm glow, I steady my short breaths in relief before ringing the bell. A vague voice comes out of the speaker but is cut off suddenly and the silence resumes. The man is not following me. I check, looking over both shoulders. The gate swings open. Ken is standing behind it, one outstretched arm gesturing to my grand entry. As I follow him into the house, my hands tremble – I’ve been gripping the bottle of wine for too long.