She is careful where she puts her feet in the shed. The milkweed has been stripped, the leaves reduced to lace, and mature caterpillars are all over the place, in the process of migrating from food to shelter. Some have already fixed themselves to the stems and leaves of potted bay trees, to knotted orchid spears, even to lattice and metal shelving. Their fat, stripy bodies, curled into the shape of a J, will rest now, a prelude to transformation, preparing to grow a new kind of skin. As she fills the humidifier, checks the heater’s thermostat, she talks out loud in this incubator where no-one can hear her: There is a place for you in the world, beauties. We need you all, every one. She keeps an inventory in her head of how many, and where, and will tell Cooper about them when she sits with him today. It will be good to have something to say, something new.

By the time she pushes the door shut, hears the latch click, the sky has ripened into dawn. Beautiful, yes, but she prefers the sky that was. There is comfort in darkness. You can tell the night all manner of lies, and it will believe you.

She sniffs the air. Again! There’s a bag of floury peppermints in the pocket of her jacket, Gold Seal Extra Strong. She slips one into her mouth and crunches down hard. It cauterises her sinuses, vanquishing that smell. Imaginary, of course. Not the homely ash of wood fires and potbellies, ever-present on cold mornings, nor that other smoke, dark and rapacious, laden with the cinders of mortgages and memories—a smell feared by all who live in the forested hills. This is different, a false summoning of seared skin and flesh-smoke. It had begun four weeks ago after Avril’s frantic phone call about Cooper. You don’t need to be a psychologist to see it for what it is: a cruel trick triggered by anxiety.

The cat is still hanging round, nonchalant but hopeful. She reaches down and scratches his chin—a no-hard-feelings gesture. Now, off you go. Gideon will be looking for you. If you run, you’ll be in time for croissants.

He gives her a baleful stare, a long, disgruntled yowl of complaint. Laura shakes her head. She still can’t get used to cats like this. Cats that talk back.

It’s colder inside the house than out. No point in turning on the heater when she’ll be leaving soon. Every weekday she’s at the hospital all day. Glad to be, so that Avril can go home for a while. Glad just to be there, near him. Though what good it does for Cooper, who could say? So much of what we do for others is really for ourselves.