It was still there, branded into the bark of the tree. One moment, twenty years earlier, when a boy told a girl that he would love her always, he carved a heart with their initials in to prove it. “I miss that time,” Sarah told her dog Hal, whose nose was buried in the roots of the great old oak. “I miss the sense of expectation. That everything is still to come. You get to thirty-four and suddenly you know this is what life is. Job, mortgage, commuting.