Daisy hugged Esther a bit more, not quite sure what to make of this metaphor, since all her photos were stored in the cloud.

“Come on, let’s go see how bad the kitchen is . . .”

The kitchen at the end of their corridor was small but functional. Or it had been until Esther had decided to cook everyone lunch, only to fall down a BuzzFeed quiz hole, lured in by a quiz that promised to tell her which Romantic poet she should date, based on her favorite cooking utensil. By the time she’d ascertained the answer to this (Byron, obviously) and what type of pasta/deep-sea creature/interstellar vessel/Sam Raimi film she was, the potatoes she’d put in the microwave had burst into flames and tried to take the kitchen with them.

Despite the faint, lingering odor of scorched earth and hot metal, the kitchen seemed relatively unscathed. Whiteboard, breakfast bar, oven, and sink looked no different, and apart from some smoke stains, the cabinets had survived intact.

There was, however, a note on the fridge, signed by the site manager.

All foodstuffs have been removed to avoid the risk of contamination.

Esther opened the fridge and took out another note.

(Yes. Even the stuff from inside the fridge.)

It was hard to see how the smoke was supposed to have contaminated any of the food inside a sealed metal box or, indeed, any of the unopened tins that had been in the cupboard above the toaster. Well, at least, where the toaster had been, because there was a note there, too.

All electric appliances have been removed for testing. (Except the fridge. Fine, be pedantic.)

A very un-Daisy-like growl issued from her throat as she pictured the site manager sitting in his office, boiling endless cups of tea and toasting the crumpets she’d been planning on having as an afternoon treat.

“Come on . . .” Esther gave her a rallying hug. “Let’s work out what we need and treat ourselves to ordering it online—that’ll cheer you up.”

Cocooned in her duvet, Susan stared long and hard into the eye sockets of the skeleton propped drunkenly on the floor next to her.

She could hear the others in Daisy’s room next door. The walls in J-block were thin, and Esther was loud. Really, Susan should be in there ordering the online shopping with them, insisting on food that could be eaten straight from the package to avoid future calamity and dissuading Daisy from paying for everything because she felt responsible for what had happened just because she’d let Esther cook.

“I need a cigarette,” Susan told the skeleton.

There was a mostly empty pack in her hand and a mostly full ashtray on her pillow. Paying scant regard to the risk, Susan lit up and bathed her lungs in blissful death.

The skeleton watched her through tendrils of smoke.

“Stop judging me.”

You’re only judging yourself.

“Susan Ptolemy judges no man.”