It’s Alisha, standing beside her, watching the cheerful bounce of Ceri’s trainers as she rounds the corner of the building.

‘She fucking hates you,’ says Alisha.

Rose blushes.

Alisha laughs. ‘You know it.’

Rose wants to joke about something, a quick joke to show she gets it. The words don’t come out, though, so she smiles again, her eyes anxious. Alisha stays where she is, though, standing companionably beside her.

‘You’re really lucky,’ says Alisha. ‘You know that?’

‘Yes.’ Like it’s only just occurring to her.

‘And you deserve it,’ says Alisha firmly.

The temperature hits an unusual high. The town is filled with a deadening heat. On the fells, the wind has gone, and in its place is a deep blue sky and fierce sunlight. The heather is dry, and pollen mingles with the zip and flurry of tiny flies.

Rose sits, pressed back into the thin slice of cool shadow against the rock. Aaron sits beside her. Down below, in town, students walk sluggishly into school. She thinks about her picture. She’s looked at it so much she can see it clearly in her mind. It looks back at her, confident, mocking.

The heather scratching at her wrist. The gritty stone at her back. The sun, hot against her knees.

Her brother lights a joint. The smoke drifts over her, a denser heat, almost tangible.

A buzzard wheels above them. Her eyes track its dizzying circles. She can see the wings, angling into the updraught of hot air. As she watches, she can feel the looping balance, the swoop of control. Sometimes it seems to be falling, but the sureness of it holds on to nothing and it curls round again into a lower orbit. It goes nowhere. It just rides.

‘Do you think Mum saw it?’

She opens her eyes.

Aaron squints. ‘She might have.’

Rose says nothing.

‘Why not?’

Rose stands. The sudden glare of the sun on her eyes makes her look down. Aaron is huddled against the rock.

‘I’m going to school,’ she says.

‘I’m not,’ he says.

Rose walks off across the moor.

She does mean to go. But coming down through the wood she gets a text. It’s from Titch. Her name, in pixels on the crappy screen of her crappy phone.

Titch.

The leaves above her glow bright, and the floor of the forest is jewelled with golden spots of sunshine. The light moves sleepily across her skin.

Titch.

Birds rustle in the trees. She hears the sound of acrylic nails tapping across a glass screen. Clack of heels on the rock, whispered breath of the train rushing warm through the branches.

Are you in school?

A slow, puzzled smile drifts across her face, catching with the strange delight of being remembered.

The world swims with sudden unreality. This is a dream, now.