The bridge disappears into the night. It’s a span of high-tension super-concrete, widening here between the Diomedes into a glittering glass village and a glistening ice park. The stretch he can see runs away from him, due north, along the International Date Line—a series of blue pools of light, shrinking into beads in the fog, before vanishing on the way to Dezhnev. Behind him, the bridge disappears the same way on its way to Wales.

From here, atop the IDL, the bridge only departs. That way, today or yesterday. This way, today or tomorrow. Depends when you come from.

She’s wearing a sleek but massive open parka, lined with synthetic fur. She doesn’t look the same—short hair angling forward, her body thinning with illness—but her blue eyes, catching the lights of a passing lorry, are the same. He says hello as he walks north along the IDL. She comes south to him, says hello. They hug in the interstitial night.

“I’m still ten years older than you,” he says.

“I won’t worry about that tomorrow,” she says.