Pete drives us slowly along the snow-covered streets, the windscreen wipers flicking noisily back and forth. Snow spins to the ground in our headlights.

‘Mum would never abandon me and Dad,’ I say. ‘Meredith doesn’t know her.’

Pete is silent. But it’s as if I can hear exactly what he’s thinking: Except that Meredith was her until fifteen years ago.

Finally, we reach a motorway, and – after an hour of slow going – find ourselves behind a snow plough scraping the road clear. Electronic signs flash: Slippery conditions. Reduce your speed.

‘Would you mind pouring me some tea?’ asks Pete. ‘I’m getting a bit sleepy. You have some, too.’ The milky tea tastes of honey and cinnamon.

I doze, and wake to the thwack thwack of the windscreen wipers. The side windows are glazed with ice.

‘Look. The border,’ says Pete. Our headlights catch a big sign: Welcome to Wales. Croeso i GYMRU. The road is a single lane each way now.

Twenty minutes later, we enter a small village. ‘How long to go?’ I ask. The snow makes it hard to see very far, but there are lights on in at least a couple of the houses. We haven’t passed another car since I woke.

‘The GPS reckons an hour. But I think it’ll be more like two,’ says Pete. It’s just after midnight, according to the car clock.

I peer into the darkness, and hope like anything that Mum is in Llanwydir – and that she’ll be happy to see me. But my fingers are barely sizzling anymore, and I’m worried it’s a bad sign.

The car swerves and fishtails through a deep patch of snow. Pete’s face is strained.

The headlights show low stone walls either side of the road, and pine trees, their branches dusted with white, like something from a fairy story. The road climbs and climbs, and Pete makes little tsk tsk sounds every time the tyres spin in the snow.

The car slips sideways and Pete says, in a tight voice, ‘We need grit to throw on the road, but I haven’t seen a grit box in miles …’

The wheels churn and there’s a loud pinging noise. ‘Oh no,’ says Pete. My stomach swoops as the car skids to the left.

‘Hang on!’ he shouts.

I cry out as the car slides into what must be a deep ditch hidden under the snow. With a terrible crunching noise, the car tips on its side, and a water bottle flies past my head. The car’s still rolling, as if in slow motion, and I’m dangling from my seatbelt, the breath squashed from me, and I’m trying to scream but I can’t ...

Then the car rolls onto its roof with a terrible groan, and comes to rest.

CHAPTER 20