With fluid actions, he moved to a stack of corrugated brown cardboard—flattened packing boxes, I realized, baffled. Where had they come from?

I tried to intercept him but with cold efficiency he sidestepped me. ‘Busy here, Rachel.’

With one punch, a flat slab of brown cardboard 3-D’d out and became a large box, into which he began loading things.

Stunned, I stared. ‘Are you really going?’ My voice was faint.

He didn’t answer. So I asked, ‘When…are you planning …?’

‘Tomorrow morning.’

I didn’t believe him. We’d had a terrible time and we’d stopped being kind to each other. But it was temporary. Things would change—things always changed—and we’d be fine again.

But he just kept on putting his possessions into that cardboard box, the muscles in his back and shoulders working efficiently under the tight, white cotton.

‘Where…? Will you stay with Joey?’

‘I’m moving to Denver.’

Denver? Honestly, I thought he’d gone insane. ‘But…what about your business?’

‘Selling it to Gustavo.’

That he had an answer was devastating. This might actually be…real?

‘Why Denver?’

‘I’ve a job there. I’ll stay with Johnno and Elaine until I get my own place.’

Even all these years later, that memory still had the power to make me shake.

Hoping that a little light espionage would distract me, I went along to the dining hall. About ten of them were in a rowdy knot at a table, everyone talking at once. The chocolate run. Had to be. Nothing else got them as agitated.

Every day, two patients were permitted to leave the grounds and, jingling with change, go to the nearby village, tasked with sourcing a long list of confectionery and cigarettes from the garage.

People who’d never eaten sweets in their lives became devotees while they were here. I remembered it well myself—when the days were so challenging, the small comforts became very important.

Only those who’d been here for more than two weeks were trusted to go out: today’s chosen pair were Rudy from Carey-Jane’s group and Chalkie.

I settled myself in a chair by the wall, close to Harlie, who had hived herself off from the main throng. A short, angry glare came my way, then she returned to painting her nails. (In Little Miss Sparkle—it gave me a small thrill that I knew.)

Chalkie had a pen poised over a sheet of paper and Rudy was accepting banknotes and doling out change. It looked as if they were running an impromptu betting shop.

‘Read my lips.’ Dennis seemed to be remonstrating with Chalkie. ‘No to: Mars Bar, Mint Crisps, Chomps, Boosts, Curly Wurlies, Twirls and Daims—I don’t even know what Daims are—’

‘They’re Swedish.’ Stanley, a new client, a beardy, bear-like man, one of Yasmine’s charges, called out.