It would have wounded his immigrant mother had Andy not returned to Medzilaborce once more. This, of all the summers he’d faithfully honored her wishes, was a transatlantic pilgrimage with heavier contours. Airlines have stated policies regarding the honorable transport of incinerated human remains. Cousin Miro’s thyroid had swollen to the size of a Benedictine plum since Andy’s last visit.

      In Uncle Oto, any heaviness was met with a jocular avoidance propelled, as always, by the practical rhythms of his natural surroundings. So much to catch up on, but first: mushrooms. And good god of mine, no: the boy would not be joining them in the woods above the cottage, never mind how pleased he was to meet his cousin at the train station. Better to remain within the confines of Teta Jolana’s impregnable regime. So swollen, Oto mouthed to his nephew in confidence, hoarse and coughing in fits.

      It was a warm morning after a good rain. Hazy columns of sunlight sneaked through the canopy of beech trees and spruce, which Oto glided around rather than crossed. Following the zigs and zags from two meters behind, Andy didn’t have time to wonder if his uncle was already in his cups. A sherpa in his own right, the man kept a spirited pace.

      “Wrong shoes for a funeral,” he called back. Andy looked down at the waterlogged tops of his discount beaters. He hadn’t considered his jeans and branded tee against Oto’s green trousers and faded full-zip jacket. Cabs and airport terminals. Country trains and highland trails. “Here,” said Oto from beneath the brim of his newsboy cap.