From the outside, Virginia’s house reminds Hazel of the one she was brought up in: large, square, Victorian, with ivy-clad bricks and bay windows. It is behind a hedge, so she has walked past many times without seeing it. Virginia supports her under one arm and the paperboy (reluctantly) under the other. Not that Hazel is unable to walk, but the pad of tissues covering her face, courtesy of Virginia’s pocket, is making it difficult to see. Also, her head is throbbing and she feels sick. Virginia thrusts a key in the lock and takes them through a large hallway. Looking up, Hazel sees stained-glass windows through which blades of coloured sunshine fall. They enter the kitchen, a vault of a room dominated by a wooden table.

‘There!’ Virginia nods to Harry, the paperboy. They lower her onto a sagging sofa by the window and the paperboy sighs.

‘I’ll be late for school now,’ he mutters, straightening up.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ says Virginia. ‘It’s not even seven o’clock! What time does school start?’

‘Well…’ Harry looks put out at these two women derailing his morning plans. Hazel sees him peer at her uncertainly. She’s aware of her thick hair, probably plastered in blood, and the mole on her upper lip along with its whisper of hair.

‘Alright, breakfast then,’ says Harry. ‘And I got homework to finish.’

‘Well, that’s your own fault,’ says Virginia, filling a kettle and banging it on the hob. ‘You should have done it last night. I’m about to put bacon on. Would you like some?’ With a series of seamless movements, she reaches into an overhead cupboard and extracts a first aid kit while opening the fridge door with the other hand for the bacon. Putting down the first aid kit, she tears cling film from the bacon and slaps it into a frying pan. There is a click followed by the smell of gas. She turns to Hazel, who is half-sitting, half-lying on the sofa. Harry hovers.

‘Now, let’s get you cleaned up!’

Hazel examines her new environment with nervous eyes. It’s all a bit… disorganised. There’s a stack of unwashed crockery near the sink and an untidy pile of newspapers on the floor. In the middle of the table is a blue-and-white-striped jug filled with daffodils, but some have withered and the wooden surface around the vase is scattered with pollen. Hazel wonders if it will stain. Above the Aga is a pulley loaded with clothes that already look dry. Also, they are draped over it at extraordinary angles. Hazel frowns. Virginia might think it’s because her cotton wool dabbing hurts, but the haphazard angles of those clothes hurt more.

‘Nearly finished,’ says Virginia. ‘It’s actually a surface wound. The blood is from your mouth. You must have bitten yourself.’

‘Where does she live?’