‘Letter came for you, I’ve brought that too,’ said Glen, fishing into the pocket of his windcheater. ‘Here you go.’

Stephen’s heart skipped. But when he looked at the envelope, something about the writing told him it wasn’t from Georgie or Cass; it looked like an adult’s writing. And if it wasn’t from one of them, maybe it wasn’t good news. He half wanted Glen to leave, so he could read the letter in peace; but on the other hand, when Glen had gone he’d have no one, no one from before he got here, no one to link him back to the outside world.

He could just not open it. He could pretend it’d never arrived. It wouldn’t even be pretending, not really, because he wasn’t staying at the address on the envelope now, was he? The Clarkes didn’t know he was in hospital. If Glen hadn’t brought his mail, he’d never have received it. He could use the medal as a pretext to go back: just tell them straight that it must’ve got scooped up in his clothes and that he wanted to bring it back himself. He could get on a train and go to Cornwall, walk or take a taxi up to the farm. He still had the money from Nick. If they saw him, if they saw him in person, they wouldn’t make him leave. Georgie and Cass definitely wouldn’t let their mum chuck him out, not if he was flesh and blood in front of them. They’d be glad to have him back.

Once Glen had gone, Stephen sat with the letter. He felt agitated. He could feel the fizzing sensation in the back of his head that had been in abeyance over the past couple of days. He hadn’t had to make any important decisions since he’d been here, but now there were lots of different courses of action that presented themselves. There were suddenly too many things to think through. It felt as if he needed to accelerate to keep up with the thoughts that were racing in his head, but he couldn’t speed up. It was as if he was driving a car stuck in second and the gears were grinding, resisting the impetus, the pull of the thoughts.