My alarm wakes me at 4:45 a.m. Cookie has disappeared and my laptop has slipped down the bed. My heart leaps so hard in my chest it makes my ribs ache. It’s time.

I dress quickly, jeans and an old cardigan, my Dr. Martens. Just before I leave, I shuffle through a drawer and find the rape alarm Mum was given at a self-defense class Meg organized in the community center a couple of years ago. I shove the alarm into my pocket with my phone.

The TV is still on in the sitting room, Mum collapsed in front of it. Her wine glass has fallen, empty, on its side on the floor. She’s snoring softly, the air thick and sour around her. I think about putting a blanket over her, but I worry she’d stir, ask where the hell I’m going at five in the morning, so I settle for picking up her glass. At least when she sees I’ve gone she’ll know I had one small thought of her. I’m about to leave when I turn back and whisper “I love you” into her sleeping ear.

The morning is chilly, but noisy with birdsong. Angel’s Bay is just over ten minutes’ walk away. At the end of our road I go through a passage that takes me onto a public footpath, which eventually leads either down onto the beach or up into an open field overlooking the sea. Before she got her powered chair I used to push Grace all the way. She’d pretend to help but usually she’d be too excited, her attempts halfhearted. I didn’t mind; those were the days she’d still let me help her. I remember how her upper body would shift and jive around in her chair, but I never saw her legs move. It was like they weren’t part of her at all. Did they work all along?

I’m pleased I’ve arrived at the clearing before GoodSam. A thin barrier of barbed wire separates the end of the grass from the cliff and the drop below. I’m too far from the edge to see, but the waves sound restless, agitated, and here the gulls drown out the songbirds. There’s no one around. I stamp my feet to extinguish a small puff of fear that’s risen inside me. I’ll make sure we stand way back from the edge. I remind myself I know this place well, know the few hiding places. I try to ignore the voice inside that whispers, “But so could he.”

He arrives soon after. I know it’s him, not just because he’s the only person I’ve seen this morning but because there’s something about the purposeful way he walks. He doesn’t seem to notice or care about the scenery. Instead, he walks with both hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed on his black shoes. He’s wearing a black hat and his black bomber jacket is zipped high up his throat. He doesn’t lift his head until he’s in front of me. He’s tall and whippet thin, with an angular head so sharp it looks like it must hurt to rest it anywhere. He has a small gold hoop in one ear and on his neck, above the collar of his jacket, there are two black flicks of tattoo ink, like the fork in a snake’s tongue. His mouth is sloppy, turned down, like the taste of his own mouth disgusts him. He’s nothing like the smiley cartoon face online, nothing at all like the sweet, bashful kind of boy I imagine Grace would pine after. I feel small in Mum’s red raincoat. His cold eyes settle on me. One side of his mouth lifts as though he finds me funny. I think about the Grace I saw in the graveyard. She had the same hardness in her eyes. I force myself to talk first.