‘I didn’t think you would,’ she says with a sad smile. ‘Do you at least feel a little calmer?’

‘I guess.’

I don’t know if calm is the right word for what I’m feeling right now.

Defeated, maybe.

She nods at the mug. ‘I brought you a cup of tea.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, wincing slightly. ‘I don’t drink tea, though.’

‘It’s more of an experiment. If you’ll humour me. What can you feel?’ she asks as she hands it to me.

I’m aware of the weight of it, the heat of it against my knuckles.

‘It feels like a cup of tea.’

‘Would you mind tasting it?’

I pull a face because I don’t really want to – I hate tea – but I’m curious.

I bring the mug to my mouth and take a sip. I can feel that it’s hot, can feel the burn of it on my tongue and in my throat, but as I wait for my stomach to turn at the taste of it, nothing happens.

‘It doesn’t taste like tea.’ I frown, looking down at the mug to check that it is. It looks like tea.

‘What does it taste like?’ Dev asks eagerly, as though I’m about to discover the cure for cancer.

I take another sip.

Nothing.

‘It tastes like hot water.’

She looks thrilled. ‘Wow!’

‘What?’

‘This is the fastest transition I’ve ever seen.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, turning to put the mug back on the bedside table.

‘It usually takes a few days,’ she explains. ‘But you’re already there, Ash.’

‘Already where?’

‘On our side.’

I dislike that word – our – as much as we.

‘The physical stuff happens first,’ she goes on. ‘Your heart stops and your body no longer needs to function the way it used to for you to, you know, be here. Then your senses start to go. So taste.’ She tilts her head towards the mug of tea. ‘And smell. You can’t smell anything, right?’

It hadn’t occurred to me to check. I inhale deeply and sure enough the room doesn’t smell like the bookshop downstairs, of old paper and dust. I raise my arm, bringing the sleeve of my hoodie to my nose and wait as I inhale again. But there’s nothing. It doesn’t smell of anything at all.

‘What about my other senses?’ I ask when I look up at Dev again.

‘We need some of them – sight, hearing, touch – to be able to do what we do.’ She lifts her shoulder then lets it drop again. ‘But we don’t need to smell or taste anything, do we?’

I suppose not.

‘I can still breathe, though. How can I still breathe if I’m dead?’