I have gone back to nine forty-one in the morning on the eleventh of October perhaps four hundred times now, and I always go for the same reason, and it is not the theory and it is not the window and it is not the eleven words.

It is that my sister stood on my doorstep holding my niece and I looked at my sister’s face.

Thirty seconds.

Maybe less.

A woman in a coat in a doorway, in a hurry, talking about a shopping centre, and I watched her mouth because she was the one talking, and there was a six-month-old in a fleece sleeper eighteen inches below my chin whose left leg had not moved since two o’clock that morning.

I am not responsible for that.