He's not looking at her. He's staring into the distance, remembering Mother's matchless biscuits.

Or, he asks himself, is this a dream? We're in the kitchen, but there's nothing around but formless white void. No cupboards, no walls, no bric-a-brac, no clock on the wall with a cat's face, the eyes clicking back and forth . . . where are we? Why does the light fall my my shoulders so, and from where does it come? Am I dead?