Dan does his best to join in, though he’s stiff and mechanical and feels like an idiot. But then Atticus copies his awkwardness, and they look like they’re having a robotic dance-off and suddenly Dan’s stomach hurts in the best way and his face aches from laughing.

Dan knows it’s a forever memory. That one day, when he can no longer bend and snap, this moment will still bring him to his knees. Him jerking and winding his hands like a clock. Atticus doing the worst moonwalk in his pink loafers, bumping into people, spilling his drink and giggling. Them being exactly who they are in that moment: two young men in love.

‘Four of your worst shots, please, good sir,’ Dan says to the barman, with finger guns.

‘Frightful, disgusting,’ Atticus declares after the first, before licking salt from Dan’s hand and taking another. ‘Keep ’em coming, cowboy.’

Dan slaps a note on the bar.

‘More dancing, Danula?’

‘Lead the way, Atty.’

They don’t leave until closing time, Atticus dragging Dan, dopey and delightfully drunk, back to the hotel room, where he needs help getting up the stairs. When they go into the room, they see the two single beds have been pushed as far apart as they could be and a Bible has been placed on the bedside table. Fitz has been relegated to a cardboard box that once held industrial-sized soap and is clearly not impressed. The television is off and a note about keeping residents awake with ‘howls and barks’ has been left under the miniature kettle with no plug.

Dan just laughs. Bumps into the walls, into the door, and finally into Atticus, who undresses him and puts him to bed while Dan mumbles on about the Bible and Bournemouth being out of date.

Initially, Fitz was cross with Dan for being home late, for the mean lady telling him he was a menace. But who could stay cross at Dan when he’s all slippery like an eel with happiness, and his eyes so full of adventure? Fitz can’t help but yip and groan with glee, to hell with the consequences.

When Dan wakes the following morning, with a dry mouth and an aching head, he sees Atticus is sitting in the threadbare chair scribbling in his notebook. Fitz is by his side, snoring lightly.

‘He wakes,’ Atticus declares, as Dan sits up and groans. ‘Don’t move too quickly. I’ll get you some water.’

There’s no glass, though, only a small vase with green mould encrusted in the bottom, which Atticus offers to Dan, who shakes his head. He says, ‘Ouch. No, thanks,’ and gets up slowly to stand under the shower, where the trickle of cold water does nothing to make him feel much better.

‘Why aren’t you dying, like I am?’ Dan groans at breakfast, over a plate of pale cold toast and a lukewarm coffee.