He piles the bagged-up clothes and boxed-up boots and gear on the counter, then comes out from behind it with a packet in his open palm.

‘Sterilizing tablets, in case you can’t boil your water.’ He shows me and chucks them on the pile.

He pulls things off the shelves and out of drawers. ‘A flask – when you do boil water, put some in a flask. Then you have it even when your fire’s gone out.

‘Medical kit – essential.

‘Thick winter gloves – also good for picking nettles. You can eat nettles, you know. Yes – once you cook them they don’t sting. That’s where your flask of hot water comes in handy.’ His thin mouth stretches over his teeth in a smile. ‘They also make good tea, for when you’ve drunk all the real stuff.’

Has he been questioned before, I wonder, about branded goods on people found (alive?) in the woods, in caves? I’d love to ask him whether they were found alive. I wonder if he ever hears back from anyone. How he knows what works.

‘Do you sell anything else?’ I ask, looking at him directly. He looks away. And then goes to the door of his back room. I wonder if it’s an invitation to follow.

I make another circuit of the shop. I choose a large waterproof camper bag, maps, torches, penknives and binoculars. I pick up the Foraging book and Birdwatching for Children.

‘Oh, and I might take these,’ I say carelessly, dropping them onto the counter. Then I hand over the equivalent of three weeks’ pay.

As he packs up my purchases into the camper bag, he passes me a card. ‘Do come back,’ he says. ‘We do mail order too.’ And he smiles again, revealing a false crown.

*

At home I pack the dried foodstuffs into the camper bag – cheesy biscuits, packets of small cakes, raisins and chocolate – and all the tins. Candles. Cutlery. Vitamins. Toiletries. Jewellery. Cash. Nothing electronic. A few warm clothes, mostly things for Cara. Wellies in two child sizes. We’ll wear the rest. Dean collects up all his lighters from when he used to smoke, before the pollution got too bad. I used to tease him for being a hoarder. I stuff in a couple of print books for Cara. We eat the birthday cake.

Late at night, in the kitchen, with the washer on, I read about foraging, committing to memory the properties and seasons of fungi, berries, leaves, bulbs, roots, flowers, nuts and seeds. I make Dean learn about them too, in case we get split up. One day I’ll teach Cara, if we last that long.