I take the leads from Tommy. ‘Thanks, Mr T. Would you put your coat on?’

He does, and wraps his scarf around his neck without my asking.

Outside it’s spitting rain and vaguely windy, my least favourite combination: mild and noncommittal. Tommy attaches Marmie’s lead, looking delighted in spite of himself, while I have a hold of Herbie, who’s straining to be let loose. At the traffic lights Tommy stops, even though there’s no traffic coming in either direction. ‘Nothing coming, Tommy. Come on, race you’ – and I tear across the road, dragging Herbie with me. A hurtling lorry appears and obscures my view of Tommy. Herbie is intent on pulling me back into the road, his wild barking underscoring my panic. Tommy doesn’t move until the little green man appears, then he looks right and left before stepping out. Who has moulded this version of my boy? I suck down my curses and run to meet him in the middle of the road, offering him my hand, which he doesn’t take. ‘Good boy, Tommy,’ I say, overriding the other script. He looks like he hasn’t heard me. ‘Will we go to the playground?’ I say, an adult who puts her child’s needs before her own. I never brought him there before – allergic to the other families, the stares, the squeals of the kids, the forced fun.

‘They don’t allow aminals.’

Do I imagine it, or does Herbie look at him?

‘Ok. Duckies?’

He nods. I should have brought bread. No more ‘should’s – another nugget from the meetings. It’s the ‘should’s that set up shame, which leads to self-flagellation, which leads only one way. Sounded so reductive and simplistic in there, but out here I’m clinging to anything that might keep me on the straight and narrow. We sit on a bench, the rain soft but drenching, Tommy swinging his feet. How I’d like to whip those absurd trainers off and throw them in the pond.

Marmie is hiding under the bench, Herbie seemingly staring into space, the stench coming off him, his own special wet-dog waft.

‘Herbie? Come here, boy.’ I pat the space beside me, between Tommy and myself, inviting him to climb aboard and soak up some of the awkwardness. He doesn’t move.

‘It’s raining,’ Tommy says, pronouncing his ‘r’ as if he’s been taught perfect RP at RADA.

I check my phone for messages. Nothing.

‘Shall we move to the bandstand, Tommy? It’s not raining under there.’

He gets up, satisfied with this plan, and shuffles off on his own, leading the pack.

Will we ever be a pack again? In the bandstand, I dance an Irish jig: a haon, dó, trí, ceathair, cúig, sé, seacht, a haon, dó, trí, a haon, dó, trí. ‘Come on, Tommy,’ I whoop, grab his hands; a misstep, as he backs away from me.

He has moved to the far edges of the railings and is staring at the pond, his back tense. ‘Can we go back to the house now?’ he says. I notice that he doesn’t say ‘home’.