‘I need to get home, Jeff,’ I say, unable to move. My body feels lifeless, like I’ve no blood left. My questionable blood. I know I will keel over if I stand up. Lifting my head towards the white clouds moving without worry across the blue sky, I inhale deeply. Once, twice, three times. Stand up, Becca.

‘I need to get home.’

The journey is a silent one. Jeff attempts conversation but to me he is speaking in a different language. Nothing feels right and I’m about two watts of willpower away from screaming my head off. But I won’t, I don’t think JetBlue would appreciate the drama. I’ll hold it together until we land at Logan. Then I will scream my head off.

To my surprise the three hour flight seems shorter than it did coming out. Having refused the alcoholic support Jeff was promoting, I feel calmer. I need to take control.

We get outside the airport, hop in a cab and travel back to the apartment. Jeff rushes in to make sure Bill and Hillary have not passed away from a day without greens. They haven’t. The two fluffy heads look as uninterested as ever and this makes Jeff happy. Dropping my bag onto the couch, I walk over and gaze out the window at the starry night. I have always found solace looking up when I feel down. The vastness of the unknown tends to put my small issues into a bigger world and shrink their value. But it’s not working tonight. I feel the burden of finding out the truth pushing down harder on me.

‘What now?’ Jeff says, placing a load of green leaves into the rabbit’s cage. I look over at him, his cool lean body kneeling down in front of the open cage door, and I wonder what I would do without this guy. I would never have gone to Algiers, that’s for sure. I would have said I’d go, I would have pottered around making plans, but without Jeff pushing the venture it would never have happened. I have a lot to thank him for, or blame him for, I haven’t quite decided yet.

‘I’m going to call on Bert.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, now.’

Jeff stands up and stretches his arms above his head.

‘You could wait until tomorrow,’ he says. ‘It’s a bit late to go knocking on an old man’s door.’

‘I can’t wait until tomorrow, Jeff. I’ve got to go now.’

I know Bert will still be up. He is one of those night birds, he told me himself.

‘There is just one problem,’ I say, looking away. ‘I can’t take my car, Dad might see it and wonder I’m doing there at this hour,’

Jeff shakes his head, disappointed, I know, that he has to go out again. Jeff would prefer to be boiling pasta, sipping wine and plucking strings.