Dad used to be the funny one, now they’re both as stressed as each other but Mum’s better at hiding it. She thinks Connor doesn’t notice the black crescents that hang under her eyes like bruises. She thinks Connor’s fooled by her fake smiles that don’t crinkle her skin, her mouth curved, the rest of her face static and stiff, like the Mr Potato Head he and Kieron used to play with. Sometimes when she fakes a grin he longs to reach out and touch her lips, moulding them back to the thin straight line they naturally fall in nowadays. Christ, no wonder he finds it impossible to talk about his emotions. Nobody in this family discusses anything that matters. It’s Ryan’s dad, Fergus, who sporadically checks that Connor is okay, asks whether he wants to talk but then he was there that day too, supervising, so perhaps he feels in some way responsible even though he wasn’t. His own parents pretend it never happened but it did and, because of him, things are a million times worse than they were.

Unimaginable.

Unfixable.

Reluctantly, he switches off the water, releasing a cloud of steam as he pushes open the cubicle door. He roughly dries himself before padding into his room, feeling a snap of rage as he sees Mum bent over his computer, scrolling down his screen.

‘What the actual…’ He marches over to his desk and slams his laptop shut, almost trapping her fingers.

‘Connor, I…’ A flush stains her cheeks. ‘I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to invade your privacy. I knocked your desk when I opened the window and your laptop just came on.’

‘Right.’

‘Are you ready for tomorrow?’ Briefly, she flashes her Mr Potato Head smile before it slips away. ‘School?’ she adds as though he’s forgotten.

As if.

‘I don’t want to go.’

‘But it’s your last year. Your A levels.’

‘I’ve missed too much.’

‘But—’

‘Will you LISTEN!’ The thought of facing the other kids, the teachers, conjures a hot panic that flies out of his mouth disguised as anger.

Mum gives a barely distinguishable nod of her head. Her hands nervously wringing together.

Connor lowers his voice, not wanting his fury to drift down the landing to Kieron’s room. ‘I want to leave. Get an apprenticeship.’

‘In what? You have a dream, Connor. You can’t abandon it now.’

A sadness expands inside him as he remembers what he’d been working towards. It’s gone, the passion he once felt for medicine. He’d longed to be a medical scientist, not the person who would treat symptoms like Kieron’s but someone who might discover a cure for PSC and other diseases.

It seems wrong now to admit he wants to reach his goals, as if he has no claim to a full and happy life.

Mum speaks again. ‘You want to go to uni—’