The bright pink of a takeaway sign lit Jem’s smile. She’d relaxed during the journey, regaining a hint of colour to her cheeks and looking less like she might warrant a diversion to the nearest A&E.

“I can’t count all my brothers and sisters,” she said at length, as if she’d held a mental debate before broaching the topic. “I was fostered for years, and I saw kids come and go all the time.”

“Oh.” Rosie didn’t quite know what to say, so she defaulted to candour. “That must’ve been shit.”

“It certainly had its moments,” Jem said with wry understatement. “I was lucky, eventually. I got adopted. Not many kids in care find a family as late as I did.”

“How old were you?”

“Almost ten, but my mum and dad had been fostering me for two years by then.” Jem tugged on her earlobe. She’d turned toward the window again, casting her face into shadow. “I don’t know what they saw in a seven-year-old with knackered lungs who could barely write her own name, but I know I’d have been lost without them.” She cleared her throat uneasily. “Sorry, I don’t—I think I’m just tired.”

Rosie concentrated on driving, not wanting to make things awkward. “We’ll be there soon. And rest assured, what’s divulged within the confines of this manky and very damp patrol car stays within its confines.”

Jem faced forward, no longer tormenting her ear. “Okay, then. Let’s talk about cheerier things.”

“Like what?”

“Good question,” Jem said as if momentarily flummoxed by the concept of joviality. “Uh, footy team? Pets? To dunk or not to dunk?”

Rosie began to tick her answers off on her fingers. “Man City. Fluffy the bearded dragon.” She paused, digits still outstretched, to address Jem’s muffled laugh. “Is something amusing you?”

Jem shook her head. “Nope, not at all. Carry on. It’s a fine name.”

Rosie did her best to look askance but gave up when she almost clipped the kerb. “Bugger, apologies.” She overcorrected and clobbered a couple of cat’s eyes instead. “I inherited Fluffy from the family of a dead smack rat, and he sort of answers to it, so we’re stuck with it. Now, where were we? No to dunking, because I’m rubbish at it and I don’t like crumbs floating in my tea. How about you?”

“Bolton, for my sins,” Jem said. “No pets of my own, but I walk other people’s dogs, and ditto on the dunking. I have on occasion sucked my tea up through a Twix, though.”