‘Whose room is this?’ I ask, because I can’t tell by looking at it. I mean, my little sister is tidy, but between all her books and the posters on the wall over her bed, at least you know which side of the room is hers. There’s nothing to suggest that this room is even being used. Aside from the furniture, it’s pretty much empty. There’s no rug, no curtains, no lamps on the bedside tables, the walls bare except for a water stain in the top right-hand corner and a cobweb softening the one opposite it. It doesn’t even have a smell. Actually, it does, but it isn’t a nice one, like my room, which is always sweet with the smell of hairspray and that perfume from Lush I got for my birthday. It smells like the bookshop, of old paper and dust.

‘No one’s,’ Dev confirms with a shrug.

‘Where do you sleep, then? On the sofa downstairs?’

Her forehead creases for a second then smooths. ‘Oh.’ She smiles sweetly. ‘We don’t sleep.’

I have to lean against the door frame as I realise what she’s saying.

We don’t sleep because we’re dead.

Dev shrugs. ‘You’re still transitioning, though, so you might sleep.’

‘You two keep saying that. What do you mean, transitioning?’

‘From who you were to who you are now. It happens in phases,’ she explains, walking over to the chest of drawers, pulling out a pair of jeans. ‘Appearance first, which should only take a few hours, and then you won’t, well . . .’ She stops, thinking about it for a second. ‘Well, you won’t look like you did before.’

I’m painfully aware of that, I think as I remember seeing myself for the first time in the mirror in my bedroom.

‘All the other stuff happens later,’ Dev adds with a careful smile.

I’m too scared to ask what the other stuff is so I gesture at the pair of black jeans she’s holding instead.

‘Are they yours?’

She nods.

‘From . . .’ I trail off, not wanting to say before.

She shakes her head. ‘If we need stuff, like clothes, Deborah gives us the money. Not that we need much. It’s not like we’re paying rent or bills and buying food and stuff.’

So we don’t eat or drink, either, then.

What about everything else?

‘No more periods, either,’ she says with a grin, reading my mind.

This grim reaper thing does have some benefits, then.

‘So is it part of the dress code?’ I nod at the jeans again. ‘Black.’

‘Nah. It’s just easier to blend in, you know?’

I want to ask her more, but she turns away from me.

‘I’ll leave you to it.’ When she gets to the door, she turns back. ‘Open or closed?’

‘Halfway.’

‘Shout if you need anything.’

Then she’s gone.