By the time I get to her, she’s turning on to her back. ‘Get away from me!’ she warns again, crawling backwards, away from me, up the path. I see the blood on the heel of her palm as she stops and holds her hand up – wet and bright, bright red – and when I see the harsh scrape on her chin, something kicks in, some need to bend down and scoop her up, hold her to me until she stops shaking. She’s looking at me, utterly wild, and when a single tear skids down her cheek, I know what it means that she can see me, but I can’t leave her because what have I done?

What have I done?

‘Poppy, I’m so sorry,’ I gasp, reaching for her. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Who are you?’ she asks with such contempt that I pull my hand away and take a step back from the path, on to a wreath that is propped against the pile of flowers on the grave we’ve stopped by. When I regain my balance, I look down to find that it has toppled over, a patch of it balding from where I stepped on it. The grass beneath my feet is dotted with white chrysanthemum petals and I’m so ashamed that I’ve disturbed it – destroyed it, actually, this wreath some poor soul laid for someone they loved and lost – that I want to bend down and stand it up again, but I can’t move as I look back at Poppy and she says it again.

‘Who are you?’

It takes me a second, but she isn’t speaking to me, she’s speaking to Esen.

I’d forgotten she was there.

‘I’m Esen,’ she says, crouching down next to her. ‘Can I help you up?’

‘I’m fine.’ Poppy winces as she puts her hands down on the path to heave herself up. As soon as she does, she pulls away so suddenly that she almost loses her balance again and I realise that it’s because I’ve reached my arm out to help her. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she spits this time, taking a step back.

‘Why don’t you sit?’ Esen nods at the bench under the tree.

She looks down at the blood in her hands, then up at me. ‘What the fuck is going on?’

I don’t know.

This isn’t it.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.