he sun is a warm, insistent pressure on the back of my neck as I shelter beneath a gargantuan shrub bursting with fuchsia camellias. The slightest movement brings a spray of blooms closer to my face, leaving behind a trail of condensation. A bee meanders past, landing on the waxy surface of a leaf overhead. It is possible to imagine that spring has arrived in Gaujacq, a commune located in the southwest of France. And yet, there are signs that today is an anomalous occasion. A wooden bench feels swollen and damp under my touch, while every step I take is
