Poppy stops and cocks an ear, then carries on regardless. It takes another shout and glare from George before she stops trying to fit her long nose through one of the small holes in the blanket. Instead she turns round carefully three times, then curls into a tiny black-and-tan ball by George’s knee. He moves it away, and she moves with it. He does it twice more before he gives up. Poppy sighs and burrows in closer. Betty watches the exchange with a smirk, then bustles over to straighten his blanket.

‘I don’t need tucking in! I’m not ten! And get this bloody dog off me.’

‘Don’t be such a Hard-hearted Hannah. She needs the company. It’ll stop her barking, might stop you, too. Ha! Right-ho, I’m away then, back soon. Try and stay out of mischief.’

George is so cross he can’t get the words out and just splutters at her retreating back. The tea looks like it’s been made in a pot. That perfect shade of brown, a toffee, a polished conker. As soon as he hears the front door slam George gulps it down and licks the sugar from the bottom. Poppy snores quietly by his right knee and the sound is a siren call, irresistible. George joins her.

Dan

(The dog ate my homework)

THE REST OF DAN’S clients are easy in comparison to Atticus. A woman who wants to talk about her mother-in-law. A teenager referred for panic attacks during her GCSEs. An ex-policeman who can’t get a knife-fight out of his brain six months after the funeral of the child he couldn’t save. Easy, compared to Atticus. Dan sees patients with anxiety every day. He talks them through fight or flight. Tells them it’s a redundant survival instinct and they should stand their ground. Imagine roots under their feet, their own strength. Now it’s Dan’s turn to panic and he can’t take his own advice. He won’t survive Atticus. He needs to run away. His life is neat and tidy. He has his dog, his job, his mum, his sister and Luke. And that’s just how he likes it. Atticus is a page full of scribbles. Everything about him is messy and chaotic. Yet Dan can’t stop thinking about him.

So he makes a decision. At the end of the day he types up his notes, tidies the room, taps the light switch three times, three times again, then goes to knock on Alan’s door. He tries to do it only once but can’t.

‘Come in! Ah, Dan. How are you? Have a seat. Good day?’

‘Hello. Thanks. Um, yes and no.’ Dan stops himself adding ‘sir’ at the end of his sentence and lurks by the door instead of sitting. ‘I’d like to refer Atticus to someone else in the practice. Please.’ There, he’s said it.