In whose apartment the roof had collapsed. While they were all sleeping. The electricity was out and her brother cried. Don’s mother brandished a flashlight. Everyone had survived. Hurray. When dawn broke they saw the sky above them. It was almost romantic. The sudden radiance illuminated the family members and the remnants of the furniture. Sitting on her dusty bed, Don watched her mother comfort her frightened brother. She felt no connection to these slightly overweight people whose skin, as a result of their lopsided diet, was gray and plastered over an overly soft structure. A slanted table, a chair with torn upholstery. This layout of organic and inorganic material wasn’t going to win any prizes.

Until the damage was repaired, the family had to move, it was announced. Unfortunately there were no social housing vacancies in Rochdale at the moment. “Sorry,” said the contact person at the agency.

“The children go to school here, this is their environment,” screamed Don’s mother into the phone.

“Yes, I understood you,” said the bureaucrat. “But there aren’t any flats in—”

“We live here. This is our home. We have roots here,” said Don’s mother, weeping a bit.

“Yes, I understood you, but we don’t have any space for you,” said the woman.

“Because of all the foreigners, who are more important than honest British citizens,” screamed Don’s mother into her phone, which was kind of funny, this latent racist statement from a person whose parents had emigrated from a so-called foreign country. But, people, you already know how it goes.

“I have no vacancy for you,” screamed the woman back, “and if you continue to harass me, I won’t help you find a space anywhere else, either.”

The only flat that was immediately available was in Manchester. More precisely, Salford, and more precisely—it doesn’t matter. It entailed a certain excitement. Moving to the big city. It was almost like relocating to London. The family no longer owned much they needed to pack, the collapse having already completely ruined the ugly furniture from Salvation Army. A few bags and boxes, mattresses and lamps were quickly gathered up, then an old Pakistani turned up with a moving van. The shabby, dirty belongings were loaded up. One last look at the fences, the people in wheelchairs—bye-bye, home.

Don didn’t even have time to say goodbye to Hannah and Peter. Karen was busy dealing with her sexuality anyway. Hannah and Peter with their lives. But it wouldn’t be for long.