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I was sitting in the parlour when I heard the siren.

I shut off the movie I was watching on my iBook (The Godfather). The siren had been muted by its journey through the country night, but I guessed it was coming from somewhere on Route 123.

It was a sound I hadn't heard in three months, since I left Halifax. The siren's wail seemed implausible above the chirping sounds of the fields and forest.

It occurred to me that it was probably one of the trucks from the village fire department. I was galvanized by the thought that something halfway exciting might be happening out there. So I grabbed my video camera and ran out into the darkness to hop into my car.

By the time I reached the end of the dirt road, the siren's volume had faded in intensity. The direction was difficult to pinpoint.

Somewhere off to the east, maybe? I took a chance and turned left onto the highway.

My car isn't exactly the quietest, and for all I knew I was going in the wrong direction anyway. Before long I had lost all audible contact with the siren. I tried slowing down and rolling down the window, but it was no help.

I continued driving for a while with the thought that I might catch up to the action. But it was feeling like a pretty quiet night in that neck of the woods.

I realized then that I almost never leave the house after dark. It's not like there's anywhere to go, really. Quite a contrast from my old life in Halifax when I worked in a bar and I was out pretty much every night.

I wound up going for a little nighttime drive, up and down the backroads of Queens County. Slow and stealthy through the darkness.

On an empty stretch of two-lane highway I reached down and flicked off the car's lights. I couldn't see the moon anywhere but it wasn't quite pitch-black out. I could just make out the edges of the road as I cruised up the centre line.

I had an urge to jump out of the moving vehicle with the lights off while heading straight up the middle of the highway. But instead, I stuck my head out the window, I listened to the car and to the forest.

All of the car's interior lights were out as well. I couldn't see any of the controls.

I listened and drove, slow. One hand on the steering wheel.

Four tires crackled in perfect clarity against the worn pavement.

Since Robin died I feel lonely all the time. But that's not what people mean when they ask me if I ever get lonely living all by myself in the country.

Now I know how to answer those people. Yes, I get lonely. Once every three months, for half-an-hour at a time.