The public footpath alongside the golf course is lined with trees so experienced they cut a dapper figure in any season.

Sally particularly enjoys their current catwalk, as they discard Autumn wardrobes for a cleaner, more form-fitting frost. But I refuse to attend in such early morning hues. I pull on the lead in an attempt to convey the idle threat of violence that keeps women from dark corners. Better to walk it in the daylight, when the biggest assault on our safety should be an errant golf ball.

Instead, we turn left. Rows of silent houses, curtains tight against the future. The occupants of beds snore lightly, or fumble for the snooze button, or stare at the ceiling worrying about geography homework, or poke out a toe to test the temperature of the day.

As we walk, bright cracks streak through the dark sky, creating pockets of possibility. Tomorrow has arrived, carrying all the plans we promised it when it was still an ocean and a sleep away.

Behind deadlocked doors, the darkness is fractured by bedside lamps, by headlines projected from devices, by the glow of the kettle and the milk gleaming in the fridge.

I walk to watch the world return slowly, silently to its normal rhythm. To check its pulse. To see that we will, indeed, rise again. The warm breath from my relieved lungs floats along the cold morning air. Sally catches our own scent on the slick pavement and guides us home.