I look at the other two women who are here with me, sitting at the wooden table under the bare light bulb. Both of them seem resigned to their lives and how things have to be. We are here for our late-night cocoa. But I won’t let a drop past my lips, however enticing the sweet smell of chocolate.

It’s been a hard day for all of us, as is every day. But while the others accept it with resignation, I can’t do that. There are things I want to know, to understand. They don’t get it. They can’t figure out why I have to question everything.

One of them seems a little more focused. She’s the younger of the two – even younger than me, I think – and from time to time I see a spark of intelligence in her eyes, as if her real self is trying to battle through the fog.

‘Why are you here?’ I ask her, keeping my voice low, my mouth disguised by the mug of cocoa that I’m pretending to drink.

It’s not the first time I’ve asked, but tonight she seems a little more responsive than usual.

The other woman raises her weary eyes. ‘You shouldn’t ask questions. It’s not allowed.’

I want to tell her that I’m an adult, not a child, and I will make my own rules. But I don’t want to show my hand. She’s more likely than the other to tell tales, I think.

‘Sorry,’ I say. I have to think of a way of getting the younger woman on her own when she is slightly more alert than usual. In the end, though, the matter is taken out of my hands as the older woman excuses herself and heads towards the bathroom.

The younger woman’s head is bowed, staring into her cocoa, but then I realise that without raising her head she has lifted her eyes and is looking at me.

When she starts to speak, her voice is cracked but low so she can’t be heard by anyone except me. I move closer. From behind the mug, I whisper one word: ‘Careful.’

I think I see a slight nod. Then she puts down her cup and rests her head between her hands, squeezing as if she’s trying to force some sense into her brain. She knows we can be seen and heard by others outside the room.

‘I don’t know why I did it,’ she says softly. ‘I loved him. Why would I do that?’

I want to ask her what she means, what she did, when it was, how long she has been here, but before I get the chance the buzzer sounds and we push back our chairs to return – as we must – to our rooms. As we shuffle along the corridor, I hear her mumble two words.