Now the house is theirs again, the landing light stays on because neither of them sleep well, and they’re often up in the night, easily disturbed by late-returning neighbours, or foxes raiding the bins, even rain on the windows, which always brings Claire back to worrying whether Evan is warm and dry.

Matt’s trying not to wake her, but Claire isn’t asleep. Matt’s been in Evan’s room, where he goes often by night, shutting himself in. Sometimes Claire can hear him sobbing through the wall, and feels the tightness in her throat and the closeness of her own tears, as much for poor Matt’s pain as Evan’s absence.

Thinking he hasn’t disturbed her, Matt creeps into the bed, slipping under his cool side of the duvet. As quietly as he can, he sniffs away the snotty residue of his crying.

Matt suffers from cold feet. Turning over, she moves close to him, puts her warm feet over his and lays her head on his chest. He folds his arm around her shoulder, and there they lie, wide awake, welded together in their heartbreak, neither of them entirely sure they want to see another day.

Stewie has come to hate Wednesdays, Groundhog Day for the day Evan disappeared. Every lesson and every break is part of the countdown to the moment they said goodbye.

On the seventh Wednesday, George is ready early for school, and Vicky allows him ten minutes of SpongeBob. George turns up the volume on the TV, and the cartoon voices of Squidward and Plankton are loud through the house.

As Stewie comes down the stairs, George is laughing. Stewie goes straight to the living room, snatches up the remote and mutes the volume.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ he shouts. ‘That does my head in!’

George is quickly on his feet, following Stewie and the remote into the kitchen.

‘Mum, Mum! Stewie swore!’

Vicky is putting cherry tomatoes into George’s lunch box. She looks at Stewie, surprised.

‘Did you, Stewie?’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, stop hassling me! Here, snitch.’ He skims the remote across the worktop in George’s direction, but George isn’t quick enough to catch it, and the remote drops to the floor, breaking off its back so the batteries roll loose.

‘Pick that up, Stewie,’ says Vicky.

‘He dropped it.’

‘You threw it. What’s got into you? Pick that up and get yourself some breakfast. You’ll be late.’

Keen to get back to SpongeBob, George is reassembling the remote.

‘I’m not going in today,’ says Stewie. ‘I don’t feel well.’

Vicky studies him. Stewie’s pale, but he’s walking and talking, and that makes him fit enough for school.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ she asks.

‘I’ve got a headache. I’m going back to bed.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Do you want me to do you some toast?’