Lynne groaned and slowly sat up. She was disoriented, and fought to get her bearings. This was the part of being blind she hated most.

She jumped when a voice said quietly, ‘Good morning.’ Viggo, she recalled, putting a name with the voice.

‘Morning,’ she muttered, her voice husky with sleep.

‘There’s a pot of breakfast tea ready if you’d care for some?’

Lynne shook her head. ‘Anything stronger? I need mega-doses of caffeine this morning. Feel like I been hit by a lorry.’ She rolled her neck and massaged her shoulders in a futile attempt to stop the dull ache throbbing within, probably from having slept on the sofa. Viggo noticed.

‘Are you sore?’ he asked, moving toward her.

‘Eh, a little. My shoulders are just telling me, forcefully, that they prefer a bed, not a sofa.

‘Here,’ he said, sitting behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders, drawing an involutary shiver from her. Pretending not to notice, he gently kneaded the stiff muscles, working out the knots and loosening the muscles up.

‘Mmmmm,’ she moaned, dropping her head forward. He continued working on her muscles, skillfully massaging each group of muscles, continuing down her back. Finally she raised her head. ‘That feels so good,’ she murmured, ‘Thanks, I don’t think my back’s felt this good in weeks.’

Moments later, he stopped, resting his hands very briefly on her shoulders. She turned so that she was facing him. ‘Can I see you Viggo?’

‘See me?’

‘Sorry, I should explain. When I want to see something, I examine it by touch. I can tell the shape of a person’s face, things like that.’

‘Uh, sure. What do I, uh, do I need to do anything?’

‘Do you wear glasses?’

‘Rarely. Contacts usually.’

‘Okay, just close your eyes then.’

‘Okay. They’re closed.’ He felt her cool fingertips touch his face, tentatively at first. Methodically, she ran her fingers across and down his face. When she reached his filtrum, the little indentation between his nose and upper lip, she paused.

‘You’ve a scar here. What happened?’

Viggo was shocked. He knew it was visible, but didn’t think it could be felt. ‘That’s. . . that’s really odd. I didn’t think it could be felt anymore, it’s almost 25 years old!’

‘I have sensitive fingers. I have to. Will you tell me what happened, or not? It’s okay if you don’t want to.’

‘No, it’s fine. It was a night of drinking—I was 17 and not so smart—and, well, I had a bit of a run in with some barbed-wire. Didn’t get it stitched up, so there’s the scar.’

‘Ouch, I had a bob-wire cut on my hand and it hurt. I can't even imagine one on my face!’

Viggo smiled just as Lynne resumed her exploration of his face. She felt his cheekbones down his jaw, and finally reached his lips. He wondered what she would do. He received his answer the second her fingers touched his lips. The sensation sent a shock through him, and involuntarily, his lips parted. He knew she noticed, but she said nothing. A few moments later, her exploration ended.

‘Well, what’s the verdict?’ he teased.

‘You’ll do,’ she said, teasing back.

Before he knew what he was saying, he started to speak. ‘Lynne, I. . .’

He was cut off by Karl calling out from his bedroom. Lynne stood, and asked Viggo to wait a moment, heading off toward the bedroom.

‘What the FUCK were you thinking?!’ he asked himself. ‘I thought you weren’t going to say ANYTHING!’

‘Hey,’ Lynne said quietly, in the doorway of Karl’s room.

‘Hey, Lynne. I’d like to get up, but I’m still kinda lost here. I don’t know if I’ll ever. . .’ he was horrified to hear his voice breaking, and stopped, trying to choke down a sob.

Lynne stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. ‘Hey,’ she said, sitting down next to Karl, ‘hey. It’s okay. I’m here to help you. Jesus, Karl. Have you cried over this at all?’

He shook his head. Lynne heard him move, but couldn’t tell what the movement was. ‘Karl, hon, I can't see your head shake yes or no.’

‘No,’ came his muffled voice. She guessed he had buried his face in his hands. Sighing, she put an arm round his shoulder, and pulled him toward her. She stood momentarily, repositioning herself, but pulled him into a hug when she sat down.

‘Cry. Don’t be embarrassed to. A-I can't see it, and B-it’s a necessity. Just let it out, Karl.’

It was as though her words broke a dam within him. He leaned into her embrace, his cheek on her shoulder, and sobbed. He clutched her as though she were a lifeline, and while he cried, she rubbed his back. With each sob, a piece of the weight of his fear broke away, and when he finished, quite a few minutes later, he felt better, almost relieved. It was then that he started talking, still resting against her.

‘My girlfriend broke up with me. The day before the accident. I have a son with her; I don’t know when I can see him again. I don’t know if I’ll see him again,’ he added, the emphasis indicating the difference in meanings. ‘On top of that, I just feel so overwhelmed. I’ve been in movies before, but this production is so HUGE! And then this happened. God, I don’t know what to do.’

Lynne switched to Maori, and lowered her voice to a soothing tone. ‘One day at a time Karl. And when that is too much, then focus on getting through the next hour, minute, or breath. Anei [here].’ She reached into her pocket and pulled out a large coin. On one side were the words ‘One Day at a Time.’

‘This is a recovery coin. It says one day at a time. Take it as a reminder. I always keep a spare. The original one I received is on a neckchain.’ She placed the coin in his palm and folded his fingers closed around it. May it bring you peace.’ She stood, and he followed suit.

Without warning, he enfolded her in his arms, hugging her tightly. ‘Kia ora, Lynne.’

‘You are welcome, Karl.’

Lynne got Karl up and, with Viggo’s help, Karl managed a bath and shave. Lynne had to wait for Viggo before she could do anything for breakfast for them. She still wasn’t sure of the arrangement of food in the kitchen. She sighed. That was one of the more frustrating aspects of being blind.

When the men entered the kitchen, Lynne looked up. ‘Why so glum?’ Viggo asked her.

‘Just one of my why me moments. Even I'm not immune to them. I was going to make breakfast, then I realised I wasn’t home, so I can't cook anything.’

‘Well, I'm not a gourmet chef, but I haven't killed myself or my son with my cooking.’

‘Obviously you’ve not killed yourself,’ Lynne said, cheekily. ‘How old’s your son?’

‘Henry’s 12,’ Viggo said, smiling.

‘You sound pretty fond of him,’ Lynne noted. ‘Is he home with your wife?’

‘Ex-wife. Christine and I get along pretty well. When I go out of state or country to shoot she takes him full time. And I am very proud of him; being a dad is the best thing to ever happen to me.’

Karl spoke up, ‘I thought her name was Exene. . .?’

‘Stage name. Her legal name is Christine. Since things beginning with Christ seem to get abbreviated with the letter “x”—like X-mas, she adopted Exene.’

Karl nodded. ‘Okay, makes sense.’

‘Okay, so what am I cooking for breakfast?’

Karl thought for a moment. ‘Umm, you better check the state of my refrigerator—after being in hospital for a fortnight I'm not sure there’s anything edible left in there.’

Viggo opened the refrigerator and peered inside. A container of milk, more solid than liquid, some green cheese, and some old eggs. He sighed and shook his head. ‘Anyone in Wellington do breakfast takeaway?’

Before Karl or Lynne could answer, there was a knock on the door. Sala called out his presence. Karl hollered back for him to come in.

‘Brought some food. After two weeks didn’t think you’d have much worth eating. Baby girl, they were out of maple toast, so I picked up some fruit bowls for you. Guys, I brought some takeaway from catering, what you two’ve been eating on set mainly. Don’t know what you like, but for what you’ve eaten there.’

‘Sala, this is. . .’ Karl started his voice breaking. ‘I don’t know how to thank you, man. You’ve done so much and you barely know me.’

‘Hey, we’re family now man. This production is so huge that everyone involved is bonded for life. You came into it late, but that doesn’t mean that you're any less a part of it. Oh, Viggo, we’re going to night shoots soon. The Helms Deep sequence. PJ says we’re looking at four months of living like vampires.’

Viggo groaned. ‘I’d forgotten about Helms Deep. This is going to be brutal.’

‘Yep. Four months of shooting an epic battle sequence that takes place almost entirely at night. Hell most movies wrap in four months. Baby girl, you gonna need us to get someone to be here days? Viggo and I will be shooting from sundown to sunup starting day after tomorrow, and going into makeup a couple hours before sundown.’

‘Uh, yeah, if it’s that soon, neither Karl nor I will be ready to cut loose so quickly. Just, not that Dom guy, please.’

‘How come?’ Viggo asked, feeling happier than he probably ought to at her statement.

‘I know his type, and I don’t care for it. He came on a little strong last night. Sala don’t get your knickers in a twist and go off on him. It’s fine, he was just annoying.’

‘All right, but that knocks Billy out too. Unless you can stand Dom if there’s at least one other person here?’

‘I’ll manage I guess. I think he may’ve gotten the point last night.’

Viggo hoped so. Knowing that Lynne wasn’t interested in Dom made him feel good. He was still a little worried about how Dom would react if he asked Lynne out, but he'd cross that bridge if it popped up.

The men dug into the pile of food Sala had brought, scrambled eggs, toast, and griddle cakes from the set’s caterers, and milk that Sala had picked up at the market. Lynne concentrated on the fruit bowls Sala brought. Halfway through the first something struck her.

‘Sala! You git, you ate all the honeydew melon didn’t you!’

‘Just from that one, I swear! I was going to tell you, I just forgot!’

Lynne growled at him but went back to her fruit. The other men laughed. Sala and Lynne were like brother and sister, and enjoyed the teasing that went with the territory.

Shortly after the group finished eating, whilst Viggo and Sala were cleaning up, a familiar voice called out from the porch. ‘Dom—terrific,’ Lynne thought sarcastically.

‘In the kitchen, Dom,’ Sala called. This was followed by a softly uttered Maori epithet, which translated roughly to arsehole.

‘Sala . . .’ Lynne said in way of warning. Sala answered her in Maori, telling her not to worry; he'd not say anything to Dom and would try to be pleasant.

‘Hey guys. Lynne, I really am sorry about last night. I was being pretty stupid, and I don’t want you to think I'm really that much of an ass.’

‘All right Dom. You have another chance to make an impression. But don’t hit on me, please.’

‘Deal,’ he said, smiling.

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