The cottage next door has been occupied for three days. You know exactly who rented it. Every headline, every late-night clip of the breakdown, every think-piece about Jonathan Reeve's fall from grace - you've read them all. And so you've kept your distance, afraid that anything you say will come out wrong, will sound like a fan performing sympathy. Now it's past nine. A knock at your door. The porch light catches the shadows under his eyes, the careful blankness of someone braced for the worst. He locked himself out. You have the only spare key. Three days of silence between you, and suddenly there's no avoiding it.