All language subtitles for Ribblehead

It's 3:00 p.m. on Friday,

the 3rd of June,
and I'm Kirstie Gower.

Our first guest today
is the only novelist

ever to win both
the Dunlop Prize

and the Harris Grant
for Young Writers in one year.

The author of the breakout
fiction hit of the season,

Tales from the M62 Corridor,

he comes from Sheffield,
and his name is Mark Smithson.

Welcome to Arts Review, Mark.

Thank you.
Thanks for having me.

So, how has it felt being thrust

into the limelight
quite so quickly?

I mean, it's not like
I'm J.K. Rowling or anything,

but you know,
the prizes are nice.

The money is nice,
but where I'm from,

people don't let you get
big ideas for long.

But most writers
toil for years in obscurity

before... if ever...
They become famous.

Are you at all worried that
success has come

- early for you?
- I am now, Kirstie.

Well,
you seem pretty relaxed to me.

Now, The Book of Tales
has been credited

with creating a new genre
dubbed, "kitchen sink horror",

and has spawned
a number of imitators.

- How do you feel about that?
- Oof, uh, flattered.

Confused. Worried.
Not necessarily in that order.

It's odd when the world
gets hold of something

that used to live in your head.

Your next book,
Suburban Topiary,

is slated for release
in the autumn.

- It's another great title.
- Well, thanks.

Will it also be
kitchen sink horror?

The hope is it's doing
some new things,

but its DNA is
the same as Tales.

It's in the can, then?

It will be soon,
despite my best efforts.

Now, one final question.

It's a cliché to ask,

but I can see from
our texts and emails

that many listeners
are wondering the same thing.

Where does Mark Smithson
get his ideas from?

Well...

creating a story is like
lighting a beacon, Kirstie.

- A fire in the night.
- Hello!

You have to wait a while,

but eventually your
characters will come out

from the darkness
and take their seats around it.

Some of them are lonely,
some lost.

Some of them
just want to be warm.

Eventually, you start
to make out their faces

in the fire lights,
and the stories behind them.

And then...

Well, it sounds weird,
but they...

then they start
to talk to one another.

- And pretty soon...
- Come on!

It's not your story anymore.

Come on!

It's theirs.

Is this him?

Yeah. That's Harry.

- So, he was your...
- Great uncle.

- Is that his wife?
- Oh, he never married.

That's, uh...
his sister, Edna.

Now I know where you get
your looks from.

I hardly knew him.

I can't work out why
he left me the place.

Joys of a small family.

It's going to be a lot
of work, isn't it?

Hey, look at this.

"Dear Harry, this was
the line grandad Mack worked on

for a year at Ribblehead.

Maybe fuel for your muse?
Love, Edna."

- Edna from the picture?
- I guess so.

Muse...
Did Harry write?

Never showed me if he did.

That'll dry out.

I was thinking
of writing in here.

You all right?

We'll get rid of it.

You know what, don't bother.
We'll have people around.

It doesn't need to be here.

It's... been six months.

It doesn't need not to be here.

Made you one.

Thanks.

Good luck today.

You know what to do
if it doesn't come.

Well, there is only
so much exercise one man can do

before he becomes a wanker.

There's a club with trampy
alkies trying to stay sober.

You'll make friends.

That's the last thing
any of us want.

I've gotta go.

Bye.

Bye.

Hundreds of men,
women, and children

labored in
a remote valley in service

of a Victorian dream
of the future.

But it was not their dream,

and it was not to
be their future.

Hello.

Hi!

Hi.

I think I found something.

- What? Your burner?
- What? No, a story.

Well, that's good.

That's great.

What is it?

Ribblehead.

There's this...
sense of place that...

I don't know,
it's hard to talk about.

Hey.

I'm really pleased, Mark.

Hey.

So, what's next?

Well...

next is research,
try and find a way in.

- What is it?
- It's a nail.

Good spot. Maybe it was on
its last legs as it is.

- Did you see that though?
- What?

I swear it just...

It doesn't matter.

- Mark.
- Honestly, it's nothing.

Well, I was thinking
about one like this just now,

and then it just...

So?

Maybe you conjured it
from thin air.

Or maybe a magpie dropped it.

Dear Edna,

I hope you don't mind
my writing to you

out of the blue like this.

You may remember your brother
Harry left me his house.

In going through his things
I found a book from you

about the railway,
which I know Mack worked on.

I'm thinking of writing
something about it

and was wondering
if there's anything

you can tell me about him,

anything at all you think
might be interesting.

I hope this finds you
in good health.

All the best,
your great nephew... Mark.

Right, I'm off.

Okay, bye.

Don't forget
about the exhibition.

Okay.

Hello.
One for the exhibition, please.

Two pound, please.

Sure it's not a shilling?

One. Two.
Any good?

Exhibition's upstairs.

I'm really pleased
you're writing again, Mark.

- But it does make me worry.
- About what?

Tales dropped out
of a fog of booze.

You've been blocked for months,

and now you're telling me
you're writing again,

and I'm out all day, and...

Did you smell booze
on me this morning?

No.

Do you think there's any way
that I could drink

- without you smelling it?
- Mark, we're not in court.

We always start
from a place of trust...

I do trust you, just...

Don't ever lie to me, okay?

It's even more important
out here.

The last time I did that,
I almost died.

With Tales, the booze worked.

But then it stopped.

So, I stopped.

- Okay.
- Okay?

Okay.

It's okay, it's okay,
it's okay, it's okay.

It's okay, I'm here.
We're here.

It's okay. It's okay.

Mark.

Cliché forbids me from saying
that I last remember you

as a babe in arms,
but there we are.

When so many have forgotten,
the memory persists.

Yes, Mack worked on
the first section.

He and Clara
died in the shanties

and were buried
at the church in the valley.

But I never knew more than that

Funnily enough,

Harry had also started
to research Mack's life,

but gave up the project
shortly before he died.

He never told me why.

I assumed it was because
he could find no records.

Brother George,
your grandfather,

lost the family papers after
ruining himself with drink.

We were always determined not
to visit the sins of the father

Hence,
Harry leaving you the house.

I have nothing to leave you
other than me blessings,

and a request to read whatever
it is that you finally write.

Yours in fond remembrance...

Edna.

One of the navvies who worked
on the line, I guess.

John Stills.

- Mark... Smithson.
- Ah.

He was
my great-great-grandfather.

Would there be any sort
of record of how he died?

I think that would be a matter

for the parish register.

Ah, looks like we're just
a minute away from drizzle. Tea?

Brewed via wind power.

Now, if, uh, you'll be mother:
pour the tea.

Let's see...
what we can find out.

Why did so many of
them drown in mud?

Well, when it rained,
the boulder clay

turned to liquid and would
flash flood the cuttings.

Ah, Smith... Smith...
Smithson.

Clara and Mackenzie.

Ah, cause of death for both
is unknown, I'm afraid.

Was that normal?

Ah well, I think these cases
were referred to the, uh...

The district coroner.

Why would they do that?

I don't think I know
the answer to that.

But I know a man who does.

The town secretary has
all the old civic records

for the parishes hereabouts.

So, if you give me
your phone number,

I can find out and let you know.

Thank you so much.

It's a pleasure.
It may take a few days.

So. Go well.

Bad day to get a puncture.

Come on in.

Punctured his bike.

Girls are just
talking shop. Drink?

Uh, just a juice, thanks.

So, is that where we'll be
out of our depth?

It's office politics,
not philosophical theory.

Those waters run even deeper.

Why don't you take
a load off, Mark.

That'll send you
in better standing.

Let's everyone sit down.
It's nearly ready.

So, how are you two
finding the good life?

Yeah, all right.

- We're keeping busy.
- Mmm.

Mark's thinking
of writing something

- about the Settle-Carlisle line.
- Nice.

Just research at the moment,
but the history is fascinating.

He's getting into trains.
I've started knitting.

All we need is nine cats
to complete the picture.

There's nothing wrong
with that picture.

Rural, the best
thing about this country.

Pretty rustic starter,
I'm afraid.

I think both of us feel...

I mean, just as all
our friends have started

settling down in the city,
we sort of...

Swerved of randomly out here.

I can guarantee
that all those friends

will think that
your grass is greener.

Plus, if our lot
are anything to go by,

you'll have no shortage
of visitors.

That's certainly true,
wanted and unwanted.

To be honest, we couldn't have
afforded the city anyway.

Academics and writers
aren't exactly spearheading

the economic recovery.

And obviously the bigger
the distance between me

and a whole lot of pubs,
the better.

Ah, that's that lamb.

I'll help.

It's all right, you
stay there, Sarah, I'll get it.

Tell me about the book, Mark.

Um, I was always had
an interest in the Line.

Not much to tell yet.

I just thought it
was a good setting.

It was real
man versus the elements stuff.

You know,
like the Wild West in a way.

Has it been done before?

Uh, bits and bobs but I think
I could find something fresh.

There's plenty
of death and disease,

if nothing else,
that always sells.

Amongst the poorest folk,
no doubt.

It was a different time,
I suppose.

But the railways
changed things for everyone.

Mark's not a complete crusader
for progress, are you?

- He's no fan of social media.
- Aren't I?

That's what you said
the other day.

- Did I?
- In the car, on the way up.

How you would never be
one of those writers

who constantly
self-promote online.

I said that
social media has become

a form of writing in itself,
which is a bit different.

One of us has
a selective memory then.

Nagel's 'subjective
character of experience'.

Listen, I don't know
who the fuck Nagel is,

or what he said about anything,
but what I do know

is there are things that
happened and things that didn't,

and this didn't.

How can you possibly be
so conceited as to think that?

You've had
chronic memory loss for years.

Always comes back to
the drinking, doesn't it?

- The ace in the hole.
- Why is it

so important for you
to be right about this?

'Cause you're worried
you've started conjuring

inanimate objects from the sky?

- Where are you going?
- Home.

Thanks for the rustic starter.

I'm sorry.

I'm going away for a few days.

Okay...
You haven't done that before.

I worry.

Then you'll have to worry.

At least tell me
where you're going.

Down by the viaduct,
sleep where the navvies did.

I'll drop you up there.

Don't bother.
I fixed the puncture. I'll ride.

In the 1860s,

the owners
of the Midland Railway

dreamed of forging
a route to the North.

The project involved bridging

this huge glacial valley
with a viaduct,

and tunneling through
a two-mile expanse of moorland,

known locally as Blea Moor.

Walk to point two on the map
to see the tunnel entrance.

It took four years
to blast through

this massive shale, limestone,

millstone grit,
and boulder clay.

It was grim work,
and many drowned

when heavy rains turned the cla
walls of the cuttings to mud.

Now, walk to point three
on the map

to see the kilns.

On this site, you can
see the remains of the kilns

where bricks to cover
the viaduct were baked.

A narrow gauge steam tram

carried the bricks from here
to the construction site.

If you look carefully,

you can see
the imprint of the track

leading away to
the north of the kiln.

Seeking a dry bed,

one drunk navvy fell asleep
on this line,

only to be fatally awoken
by the first delivery from...

Over 2,000 people lived

in the square mile
of space before you.

Not far from where you now stan

were pubs, shops,
and places of worship.

When construction was finished,
the huts were demolished.

The navvies dispersed,
and within two winters,

all traces of the settlement
were blown away

by the Pennine storms.

God!

Mark!
What are you doing out here?

Can you tell me what happened?

I love you.

And whatever is happening...

and I do mean whatever...

we can fix it.

It's not a relapse.

That's what I'm worried about.

They always brought you closer,
but with this...

Now.

Either we do
something about that...

or we don't.

Do you understand
what I'm saying?

Thanks.

Okay, so, I see the nail,
and it starts...

appearing everywhere.

The one from lunch,
the one from the hall...

and the one from the puncture.

And these are real, right?
Like, you can see them.

Mmm.

But then...

I'm listening to this
thing about navvies drowning,

and I wake up in a tent with
two bodies lying next to me,

and a fucking tram coming
straight at me

out of 1873...
That can't be real!

Does it happen when
you're writing the story,

or you're reading about it,
or thinking about it, or what?

It's always been when I'm...

thinking about how to
fit something into it.

Why didn't
you tell me this before?

This...

it wouldn't be the first time

that the mind's played
tricks on me.

Okay.

On my mother's side,
there's a history of...

Schizophrenia.

But you kept it to yourself

because suddenly
you're writing again.

I knew you'd
make me see someone.

I can't make you
do anything, Mark.

It's not that bad.

It's just that sometimes...

It's separating what's real,
it's just... it's constant.

Then, why don't you stop?

These past few
months have felt...

I ju... I think... I think
I really need this.

I can handle it.

We can handle it.

Okay.

All right. If it helps
with the book, let's try it.

I can help you keep track.

But there's one rule.

Everything you read, watch,
or see on this, I see it too.

That's the only way
we can both know what's what.

Yeah, okay. Okay.

Here's another one
I got from the museum archives.

It's a letter from
a man called John Miller

about the near drowning
of his sister, Elizabeth.

Miller was in
the same work gang as Mack.

She work down the line as well?

She was married to a navvy.

Lived in the tunnel huts
on the side of the moor.

She slipped and sank into a bog

while leading a cow to pasture.

"She swallowed some
of the mire in doing so,

but soon she broke free
of the earth's unwanted embrace.

After a moment's composure,

she carried on her way
as if nothing had happened.

But for some days after,
she would wake in the night

and continue to void herself

until we became
profoundly uncertain

as to the ongoing source
of the substance."

Nothing like a bedtime story.

Well, you signed up, soldier.

How many more
of these are there?

That's the last one... for now.

It's cold in here.

Yeah, this side
gets the weather.

In there it's warm. There's
and everything.

I'll be right in.

Dr. Mayhew
will see you now.

Come.

Mark, Sarah, please take a seat.

So, what I would like to
do first is for you to describe,

in your own words,
what has been happening.

If one of you disagrees
with something the other says,

please just raise your hand.

I started seeing things,

and now Sarah's
seeing them as well.

What kind of things?

Objects, people.

It all seems
to be associated with

a story I'm trying to research.

I'm a writer.

So, initially you didn't
share these experiences, Sarah?

Only the most recent one.

Can you describe
that one for me?

I woke up in the middle
of the night throwing up clay

after Mark and I had
been reading about a woman

who had done exactly that.

So, you both witnessed this,

but there were
no third parties present.

That's right.

And it was clay,
not vomit you saw?

Saw, felt, smell, yeah.
It was clay.

Was there any change
in circumstances

that could have led to you both
having this experience

rather than just Mark?

I, uh, hadn't told
Sarah about them before,

but it was driving me...

I was starting to have
trouble keeping things separate.

So, Mark,
you have a family history

of schizophrenic delusions,

and it's not unusual
that given the recent stressors

of alcohol withdrawal
and moving house

that this could have
triggered a further episode.

Attempting to cope
with this alone

is the worst possible strategy.

What you've been trying to do,

we in the profession call
"double bookkeeping":

creating two
accounts of reality,

one that common sense
tells us is real,

and one that tells us it's not.

It can be isolating.

And indeed, it is this isolation

which is considered one of
the most dangerous elements

for people who
suffer from this disorder.

So, it's good that
you included Sarah in this.

And you mustn't feel guilty.

But what about Sarah?

There have been
cases in the past

where people who are
extremely close to one another

suffer shared delusions.

Colloquially, the phenomenon
is known as "folie à deux".

Typically,
they are experienced first

by the more dominant partner,

and subsequently shared
by the other.

And I think this
could be the case here.

And if it were,
and we treat Mark, then,

Sarah, your problems
should also be addressed.

When can we start?

Mark, I'm going to prescribe
for you an antipsychotic,

which should help.
And until it does,

I suggest that you seek to talk

to any trustworthy
third parties, and each other,

about what is going on to assist

with developing
a clear account of things.

If you can't
find any third parties,

seek another form of objective
record, CCTV, audiotape,

things like that.

And above all, try not to worry.

In the end, it's always
the worry that gets you.

Thank you.

How's it going?

Mm.

Maybe I can help later.

Remember, Mayhew said
we still share all the research.

I'm past that for now.

Trying to actually get some
stuff written down this week.

"Trying" being
the operative word.

I know it's difficult,

but it's better
than the alternative.

For me, anyway.

Well.
Death by department meetings.

I'll see you tonight.

When the tunnel collapsed,

they knew it was trouble.

Four men from Charlie Gang
had died this way

just last week.

They had a choice.
Try and blow their way through

and risk more slippage,

or wait to see
if they were dug out.

After they all saw the thing

they later agreed
they couldn't have seen,

the decision was
the easiest one they ever made.

Hey.

Oh, hey.

I didn't hear you come in.

It's going better?

It is. Yeah. I think it uh,
might work like this after all.

It just came?

It just came.

That's great.

And you all right?

If you're all right,
I'm all right, remember?

Oh no. No, no, I'm not
through the blast shelter.

No, please! Please!

My back's killing.

You've been hunched up
in bed all evening.

Take a break.

I need to finish this tonight.

I'm going to go
work downstairs for an hour.

Don't wait up
if you're knackered.

You reading?

It's an extract
from Crossley's diary.

You know you're not
supposed to be reading stuff

from the story without me.

I literally just picked it up.

I didn't realize I had to come
and get you that very second.

Lucky timing then, isn't it?

Better start reading.

Go on. It's right there.

"On winter's afternoons,

the mist will
creep down from the fells.

The children call its tendrils
the witch's fingers

because they seem
to grasp one's very bones.

To turn the moss
that grows in every corner,

to snuff out the fires,

and pluck the spirit
from their very souls."

Fire!
I think there's a fire.

What?

Calm down, Sarah.
Calm down. Hey!

It's not a fire, it's not smoke.

Then what is it?

It's mist.

It's not misty outside.

Because it's damp.

Stay calm.

I'm gonna go for a piss.

Keep the window open,
it'll clear.

Jesus Christ!

Mark?

What?

Mark?

Let's just try not to panic,

and we'll think
about it in the morning.

In the morning?

You haven't been
taking the pills, have you?

What made you think
this wouldn't happen again?

Oh my God, you set me up.

Something came out of here.

I'm trying!

Take your
fucking pills right now.

Jesus Christ, I can't stop it!

Sleepers.
We're gonna get sleepers.

You stopped taking the pills.

I...

I thought I could handle it
and protect you from it.

But you couldn't!

What you put us
through last night...

You made me read it to you!

Why did you lie to me?

You said you loved me,
and then you lied to me.

Answer me!
Or I'm going to leave you

and this house right now!

The whole point was that the one
thing we could be sure of

was each other.

Look. I'm going to go
make a coffee, all right?

No!

You sit right there
and you tell me why.

'Cause I liked it.

Even when it felt
really bad, I liked it.

Back in the day
when I was drinking,

it used to make me feel so...

And then stopping,
I just felt like...

You felt like
the rest of us feel every day.

Maybe a bit bored.

Maybe a bit ordinary.

That wasn't good enough
for our hero, was it?

He needs to be out
there on the fucking edge!

I'm gonna give you
two options, Mark.

We can start over one last time.

I watch you take every pill.

You stop reading
about the navvies,

you stop writing
about the navvies,

and we figure out
what the hell is going on

in this house together.

That's option one. Got it?

Option two is
you do whatever you want.

Alone.

Mayhew said we should
involve third parties

to help us keep
track of what's what.

Won't we start on anyone.

There's another way.
We need to be logical,

and we need
to deal in facts, okay?

- Okay.
- Okay.

I'm going to get
some stuff from my uncle.

What sort of stuff?

Message
received today at 13:30 hours.

Mark, this is
Reverend Stills from the church

I finally
located the parish records

on your great grandfather.

I'm afraid
it's rather grim news.

Shortly after his wife,
Clara, died of smallpox,

Mackenzie Smithson
took his own life.

It wasn't recorded
in the church register

because suicides
require inquests,

which were handled by
the coroner in Lancaster.

I hope this isn't
too disturbing to you.

I hate to be
the bearer of bad news,

even if it is 150 years old.

If there's anything I can do

in the way of pastoral support,
please do...

Tuesday and Thursday

followed by coffee
in the vestry.

Either way it will be good to
boost the church's numbers,

which, I'm afraid
to say aren't...

Mayhew flagged lots
of other cases like ours,

but the conclusion was always
shared psychotic disorder.

You can see how she got there.

Seems to be
the only answer anyone has.

It's the only one
that makes any sense.

Why would ours be any different?

But look.

Traces of moss in the toilet,

and clay in the sheets,

and clear depressions consistent

with the pressure of heavy
machinery outside the tent.

And no prints other than
ours anywhere else in the house.

So...

So? Doesn't that
rule out folie à deux?

We weren't seeing things.
They were actually there.

Unless... unless we're
seeing things now as well.

Unless we've been
seeing things the whole time.

But how far down that
road are we going to go?

If we suspect the evidence,

the paper it's
written on, it's bottomless.

And how do we test it?

It's just bad theory,
or at least a worse one than...

Than the fact that I'm
somehow manipulating reality

with my head?

Imagine if every time
something new happened,

people are
denying it as a vision?

Things that can
explain everything

rarely explain anything.

Just... think about
what that means for a second.

How could it possibly work?

It turns everything on its head.

We'll figure it out.
We just have to be logical.

There's nothing logical
about having some navvy witch

in your house at night.

But there is logic, isn't there?

It's just one
we haven't seen before.

When you create
this story in your head,

things happen in real life.

Now, the facts tell us...

The facts don't
tell us shit, Saz!

The moss was moss,
and the clay was clay.

It doesn't explain how
I summon them out of thin air.

And it doesn't explain why
they went after me.

You're right.

Oh my God, you're right.

Facts don't explain anything.

People do.
This stuff is only crazy

by the rules
we take for granted.

But the rules we create, that
people create, which means...

it means we can create new ones.

Rules are the rules.
You can't just change them

because they don't fit
in with how you see things.

It's fucking science.

Of course we can.
It's how we've always done it.

We just have to come
up with a theory first.

Then, at the end of the month,

when you start
researching again, then we test.

I think we should stop this.

All of it.
Just the house, the story,

just go back to the city.

A week ago you were desperate
to start again. What happened?

Nothing happened.
It's just that...

It's just that now
we're doing this together,

it has no value.

You were the one that
wanted me to stop everything.

I wanted you
to stop hurting yourself.

I never wanted you
to stop being creative.

It's you that can't
separate the two, Mark. Not me.

Come on.

It's all right, Saz. It's okay.

It's going to be okay.

Maybe it's just
another bad dream,

and we'll wake up tomorrow
and everything will be fine.

I'm gonna fix this.

I'm gonna fix this.
I'm gonna fix this.

I'm gonna fix this.

We know how to make it ours.

We know.

It's smallpox.

Just tell Mary

to make you another
appointment please, Dawn.

Mr. Smithson, the World
Health Assembly declared

smallpox eradicated
30 years ago.

Just trust me, it's smallpox.
What's the treatment?

I, um...

What's the fucking treatment?

There's no cure. There's
a vaccine, but there's no cure.

It's in your head.

I know you can work this out.

Well, how can I?

I'm not a doctor, I can't
just come up with a cure.

But you can
come up with a story.

Where'd it all start?
The viaduct.

Just after...
Just after I first saw it.

Then you go back.

And you start over.

Sit up.

But this time, make sure
you know how to get ahead.

Mark?

Remember. You're not Mack.

This is your story.

Okay. I was walking.

Start walking.

And I saw the viaduct.

The story begins.

So. People are recovering.

There was a uh...

There was infirmary hall
where they did blood letting.

Help!

Other treatments
were fasting and hypnosis.

They... they prayed.

Fuck! They're not getting
better. They never did!

Come on. Come on!

Come on!

Everything's happened already.

So, anything I do,
it just leads me back here!

Unless we start at the back.

Then we could turn it
into a different story.

And find
a way to make the old story

fit within the new one,

so it's not a ghost story.

It's a love story.

Okay. Okay. A man,
a writer, moves to the country

so he can fall back
in love with his wife.

And to do that, he's needs
to open himself to her

in a way he
never has done before.

But he's so deeply shut inside
his writing that he can't.

So, he decides he has to scare
himself out of his own head

and back into
the arms of his wife.

But to do that...

To do that...

To do that, he needs
to write one last story.

A horror story
within the love story.

But it's not
the horror of ghosts or death,

but of a writer
trapped inside his own head.

The writer's story is a tale
of growing mistrust of lies,

deception, and ego.
And at the end,

his wife contracts
a life-threatening virus

because he's too scared to tell

her she might
have been exposed to it.

So, he goes back
to where it all started

to try and come
up with a solution.

But nothing works.

He knows he can't
change what's already happened.

However hard he tries,

he can't think outside
the limits of his own head,

afraid of losing control
of what little he understands.

And so, he comes to see
that their fate is fixed,

that he will
jump from the cliffs

after his wife
has died from the virus,

just as his
great-great-grandfather did.

And he rushes
back to the hospital

to say one final
goodbye before it's too late.

And the man knows
then that he's done it.

That he's seen a version
of himself so weak and pathetic

that he can leave
that person behind forever,

and that this
is now a love story,

and that he will get
back to the hospital in time

to tell his wife
that this is how it ends.

Mack. A note to
thank you for your last letter.

I am so glad you
finally found the ending

you wanted for your story.

After all, what could
be more important than that?

Yours in grace and peace.

Edna.