He spent a lot of time in a bathroom stall somewhere by Gate G or Gate A or Gate 3: head buried in his lap, head buried in a toilet, head buried under the faucet of the sink in the handicapped stall.

Flickers of the scene came back to him every day. The ambulance, the fire truck, the policemen and the tiny 4-seat aircraft dismembered across a field in Mykonos. He and his father had driven there together. He’d never seen Stavros cry. He’d never really been hugged like that by him before. He let Stavros speak to the officers, he walked off to the other end of the field, letting the plane recede from his view. He leaned over and puked into a bush.

At Heathrow, his friends waited for him by the Duty-Free.

He pressed his nose against the door of the stall.