I put on the mask, checking the seal is secure, and turn on the machine as I lie back on my bed – on top of the duvet because my mum’s a maniac and I’m roasting. The CPAP whirrs and I close my eyes as I breathe in the oxygen, trying my hardest not to think about everything that’s happened today: the explosion, the escaped test subject and hearing Hoche’s voice. I fail, obviously, cos I’m full of adrenalin and halfway ready to grab a weapon and go walking the streets, searching for answers. Sometimes the hardest thing is doing nothing. I don’t feel it coming but, at some point, I drift off. 33 I jolt awake, feeling like I’m falling, my heart thudding in my chest. This is nothing new, so I go with it, trying to slow and deepen my breaths, sucking in the oxygen like it’s, well, oxygen. Which you literally need to live. My pillowcase is soaked where I’ve sweated so much, and my hair is plastered flat against my head. Once my breathing has calmed, I turn off my CPAP and remove the mask. My phone says it’s 3:58 a.m. which is not a fun time to be awake. I need cold, so I go to the bathroom and splash icy water on my face. Outside our house it’s silent, but my skin prickles when I hear a noise downstairs. The kettle.

‘Chill, Lance. It’s just your mum,’ I say. ‘Unless the escaped creature is making itself a cup of tea.’ I go downstairs quietly, just in case, and head for the kitchen. The light is off, which is weird, cos Mum’s jumpy in the dark at the best of times, and this is pretty much the opposite of the best of times. In the dim light coming from our kettle, which lights up as it’s boiling, I see my mum standing over a mug.

‘Mum,’ I say, turning the kitchen light on. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Hey sweetheart.’ She looks up at me, blinking 34 as her eyes adjust. ‘I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d make a warm drink. Do you want one?’

‘Thanks, but I’ll probably get something from the fridge, seeing as it’s a million degrees in here. Why didn’t you turn the light on?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she frowns. ‘I didn’t think to, I could see well enough. Probably still not fully awake.’ The kettle is bubbling away now, getting louder and steamier as we both watch it. Something feels off, but I’m not sure what. I side-eye my mum as she leans close to the kettle. She looks normal. Well, she looks less ill than normal, but I can’t see anything else different about her. I jump again as the kettle boils and its switch flicks up.