Adult cast. No sexual content and no violence. A curling club on the last night it will ever hold a bonspiel, in a hall above a farm-feed shop whose ice plant failed on the fourth of August and cannot be replaced for sixty-one thousand pounds against a balance of four thousand two hundred, and whose lease runs to the thirty-first of March on a plant that will not make it; the transfer of that lease, signed on the corner of the hack in the middle of the last game, or carried out unsigned in a coat; a seventy-one-year-old member with a bad hip, in shoes that have not moved since 2019, who is given the hack for one stone because the rules are the rules; a nineteen-year-old who has done the hack and the medals every Friday since he was fifteen and is handed the keys to a plant room he has no authority over; and a decision taken at about eleven o'clock at night about whether to draw around a guard or hit a double. Nobody dies in this story, nobody is ill, and there is no hearing, no tribunal, no lawsuit, no disaster and no romance. Nothing supernatural happens in it and nothing is ambiguous: the whole story is five ends of a curling game and a signature line.