Don tried not to think. What was left was the so-called emotional life. Everything inside her yearned for normal young people things. For the chance to fall in love, kiss, have sex, for loud music and fast motorcycles. Don wanted to be anywhere where there were no homeless shelters, no Rochdale, and no family. The expectations of what was waiting for her outside positively pained her. An outsider from, say, Ukraine or Malawi or Bangladesh, from, how to put it, precarious conditions, could chuckle bemusedly at Don’s self-pity. That person could say: “Please understand that we are considered to have no value. Our lives are only significant if we distinguish ourselves in some way. With wealth preferably, or a mind for startups. Some extraordinary gift, like piano playing or ball playing, some shit that somebody else can make a fortune off. If you don’t contribute to the strengthening of the economy or divert people from their existence with your singing talent, it’s a bit presumptuous to ask for a prize for the fact that your parents managed to fuck. You had dreams of something because you live in a halfway civilized country, meaning there is only a possibility that you’ll be raped or shot, plus you can go vote. Hey, how cool is that? Anything above and beyond that is, however, not intended for you. This is it. A bunk bed in a putrid homeless shelter where the screams of other people, who understand that they’ve been abandoned here to die, keep you from sleeping. Eat it up.”

Someone would say, someone observing Don from above.

But

There was nobody. There wasn’t even a god for fuck’s sake.

After a few days

Don felt better. She’d gotten used to it. Humans. If it’s necessary they’ll grow fins. And then

Something strange happened. One of those things that could only happen in a small town

Because all of a sudden

HANNAH AND PETER

Arrived at the homeless shelter. Hannah’s squatted house was being razed, and a grim building thrown up for somebody. Whatever—

HANNAH