Four hundred and ten miles away, a man of thirty-two had an ordinary Tuesday.
He got up at ten past five, because the shift starts at six and the ferry is at twenty past. He ate standing up. He was on the dock at four minutes to.
The dock is four hundred and eleven feet long and eighty years old and it floats, which people find difficult to believe until they have seen it, and it is held together by about nine men who know where to hit it.
Tomas Reis is the one they ring at two in the morning.
At eleven o'clock there was a problem with a valve gallery on the port side that had been coming since the January and that he had put in a report about twice.
He was in it for two hours with a boy of nineteen called Sérgio holding a light, and at one point he said, "Hold it still, hold it — no. Look. You are holding it where you can see. Hold it where I can see," and Sérgio has repeated that sentence to about eleven people since and does not know why it stuck.
At two he ate a sandwich sitting on a bollard.
At four he had an argument with a man from the port authority about a certificate and won it, in Portuguese, which he learned in four months in 2029 out of a book and on a supply boat and which is now the language he dreams in.
At six he went to Célia's.
Célia runs the café at the bottom of his street in Graça and is sixty-one and has fed him at four in the morning about eleven times in six years and has never once asked him a single question about anything.
"You look terrible."
"Thank you, Célia."
"You are working too much and there is nobody in that flat and I have said this before."
"You have said it about four hundred times."
"And I will say it four hundred more," said Célia, and put a plate in front of him that he had not ordered.
At half past eight Rui came in.
Rui Marques is forty-one and he is a welder and he is the best friend Tomas Reis has ever had, in the sense that matters, which is that he is the only person on this earth who rings him for no reason.
He had his younger daughter with him. She is seven.
"Say hello to Tomas."
"Hello," said Alzira Marques.
That is the whole of the Tuesday. There is nothing else in it.
He walked home at about ten and did the stairs and went into a flat with four rooms in it, three of which he has painted, and stood in the kitchen for a moment with the light off.
And Tomas Reis — who was Dominic Laird until the September of 2029, and who has not answered to it since, and who will not answer to it in a bar in Cacilhas in four days' time — did the thing he has done at the end of every single day for six years without ever once deciding to.
He stood in a dark kitchen and listened to the building.
Nothing.
He put the light on, and washed a plate, and went to bed at a quarter to eleven, and did not know for another eighty-four hours that at eleven minutes past four that morning a man in a building in London had photographed thirty-one pages of his life with a telephone.