I didn't think I'd sleep at all, that night; not after the events of the day. So I was quite surprised when I found myself stirring awake in the blackness, and realised I'd managed to drift off, after all.

I lay there for a while, pretending that I wasn't straining to listen for the sound of Niles breathing, or Niles moving, or Niles' anything. When I couldn't pretend to myself any more, I turned over and shut my eyes, trying to fall asleep again.

Unfortunately, by that time my thoughts were spinning out of control. I won't recount the details here, because it should be perfectly obvious which directions they took. I *will* mention that I became angry, and that my anger was directed at Niles Crane. For some reason which made absolute sense at the time, but which I couldn't begin to justify in the cold light of day, I was *furious* that he hadn't argued against my decision.

This anger eventually prompted me to throw the covers back and sit up. I hoped that the sound would rouse Niles from his bed and we could maybe talk. When I perceived no motion from the fold-down cot, I stood up and walked over, squinting through the darkness, ready to shove him awake if necessary.

But the curtain was pulled back and the bed was empty.

I checked the toilet, even though I knew he wasn't in there, then I cracked the concertina-door separating the rear bedroom, to check that Maggie hadn't seized her opportunity and offered herself as booby prize - if you'll forgive the expression.

But Niles wasn't in the Winnebago at all. He'd taken himself off somewhere, and the idea froze my blood. Something he'd said to me in Michael's trailer bedroom popped treacherously into my thoughts as I fumbled about for some clothing. I could hear his voice in my mind, saying the words.

'It's too much and I'm tired and I want it all to end!'

Suddenly the statement took on a far greater significance.

My watch read half past one in the morning when I let myself out into the night air, looking all around, hoping that Niles hadn't gone far. I wandered among the closest vehicles, trying not to panic. The party nearby which had been underway as we'd arrived back at the Winnebago, was now on its last legs. There was a group of perhaps half a dozen people sitting around the dying embers of a small campfire, nursing cans of beer and talking quietly. I walked over to them, hoping that they might have seen where Niles had gone.

"Hi," I offered, in greeting.

They all welcomed me pleasantly enough, and offered a camp stool to sit on and a drink. None of them looked older than twenty-three or twenty-four. I declined to join them, telling them I was looking for a friend and asking if they'd noticed Niles walk past.

One of the young men said he'd seen a man walking along the path towards the river. That had only been perhaps twenty minutes beforehand. The girl sitting tucked between his legs nodded and said, "Oh yeah, thinning fair hair? Jumped like a jackrabbit when a woodfinch called through the trees?"

And who else could that be?

My heart shuddered in my chest. I thanked the group for their help and headed off to find the footpath, trying not to run. After a few steps, I wondered why I was worrying about how I looked, and I decided to run anyway.

It was pitch black once beyond the limits of the light afforded by the campsite. I forged ahead, desperately concerned about what Niles might intend to do at the river, and trusted to the pathway being level. After a
short distance, the path opened out beside what was clearly a boating concession, though the boats had been removed from the moorings and the jetty stood alone, stretching over the water.

There was no sign of Niles, but on the plain surface of the semi-lit jetty lay a single, discarded boot.

I ran to it and picked it up, terror already surging through my chest. I could hardly believe it, I wanted desperately to wake up again and find myself back in the Winnebago. But the boot was unmistakably Niles', belonging to the pair I'd helped him pick out myself, and there was no further sign of my friend.

There was only the taunting, inky glimmer of the water's surface.

I fell to my knees, there on the wooden jetty, hugging the boot to my midriff and trying to keep breathing. Thoughts occurred at random; I should get back to the Winnebago and raise the alarm, I should see if he left a note, I should throw myself in after him.

Then the 'shoulds' turned into 'should haves'. I should have talked to him. I should have given him the chance to argue against my decision. I should have never taken him up on his offer to drive us to the festival.

I should have stayed in England and never inflicted myself on an unsuspecting Crane family.

Ah, the intoxicating draw of 'if only'. But it made no difference because they were all faits accomplis. Niles was gone, leaving only his boot behind ('Why did he leave his boot?' my mind asked, but I was too caught up in my grief to pay much attention to this detail) and it was all my fault. Everything we could have been together slipped away into insignificance.

And I was alone on the jetty, under the moon, crying my loss into an orphaned piece of footwear.