Lucy wasn’t the only one to overwinter from the Pool, just the most recent. Another Poolmate named Billy DeFroid had been inducted into the Winter Consul Service three years before, and everyone was full of praise up until the moment he was eaten by nightwalkers who had gone pack in Llandeilo. He’d fared better than most. The average life expectancy for a Novice on their first Winter ‘boots in snow’ was barely six weeks. The Winter wasn’t a forgiving place; little wonder newbies spent their first Winter doing paperwork safely indoors.

‘So, Lucy,’ I said, ‘tell us about the narcosis.’

‘Quite  . . . challenging to begin with,’ she said. ‘I thought my legs were made of chocolate. The colder it got, the more brittle they became. I was worried that if any nightwalkers turned up I wouldn’t be able to get away.’

‘I’ve had dreams like that,’ said Maisie Rogers who had wandered over, ‘running but not being able to escape.’

Dreams. No one who was anyone had dreams. Those of us with access to Morphenox happily traded our subconscious hibernational activity for a dramatic drop in stored energy requirements. Morphenox removed the ability to dream, but in exchange gave us increased survivability. For the first time in human history, an individual could realistically expect to live through the Winter. ‘Morphenox’, another advertising slogan went, ‘brings you the Spring’. An addendum might read: ‘but only if you have the luck, cash or social position to be granted its use’.

‘You don’t need to wear the whole dreaming deal as a badge of honour,’ scolded Megan who had joined us.

We all nodded agreement. Most people who were forced to forgo the pharmaceutical means to ease themselves through the Winter stayed quiet. It was like wearing a big hat with ‘3rd Class Citizen’ written all over it.

But Maisie, to her credit, was unabashed.

‘I’m not ashamed,’ she said indignantly, to groans and rolled eyes from all of us, ‘and I won’t be made to feel ashamed. Besides, dreams are fun and random and at least this way I never get to be a nightwalker, lumbering around the Winter, eating beetles and curtains and people and stuff and then ending my days as a spare parts inventory.’

‘If you become a Vacant you don’t know you’re one,’ I pointed out, ‘that’s the tragedy and the blessing – no brain, no torment.’

There were, inevitably, a few downsides to Morphenox: a shocking headache, some fearful hallucinations – and for every two thousand users, one would arise from hibernation as a nightwalker. The 50 per cent of citizens granted Morphenox were the same ones who might end up as drooling subhumans with severe personal hygiene issues and a dismaying penchant for cannibalism. Irrespective, everyone thought it was a risk worth taking.