Marthe and Mum are sitting at the kitchen table having a cup of tea. Olea is sitting on the floor, drawing. It’s late morning, and the sky outside is overcast, a breezy day. I woke up early this morning in the garden, bitterly cold. Kristoffer had woken before me and gone inside, the blanket had been left draped over me. I had fallen into bed and immediately passed out, sleeping for a few hours before waking with a pounding headache, my mouth and throat dry. I think I dreamt about him; I need to talk to him.

‘Happy birthday,’ I say, giving Mum a hug, hoping I don’t still smell of alcohol.

‘Thank you, Ida,’ she says, hugging me back.

‘Where are the others?’ I ask.

‘Stein is down by the jetty,’ Mum says. Marthe doesn’t look up from her phone. ‘Kristoffer is still asleep.’

‘Gosh,’ I say, forcing a chuckle, ensuring I’m standing with my back to her as I make myself a coffee.

I can’t turn around to face Marthe, I’m afraid that she’ll see something in my expression. Nothing happened, I tell myself, nothing happened, there’s nothing to feel guilty about. I feel an urge to see Kristoffer, to feel his physical presence in the room. We have to talk about what happened, I think to myself, you have to talk about things like 101that, nothing happened, but we have to talk about the fact that nothing happened, or perhaps we won’t, perhaps we’ll just exchange looks all day long, well aware that something almost happened, perhaps we’ll find an excuse to wander down to the jetty together and sort out the boat. Tonight we’ll drink again, we’ll sit together as the others make their way up to bed, and he’ll tell me that we should be together, I can tell him that wouldn’t work, that he can’t say things like that, that Marthe is my sister, we can’t, but how am I supposed to resist, he’ll say, you’re so easy to talk to, I can’t talk to anyone else like this, there’s a connection between us, I don’t understand how I could have failed to see it all along. Something grows in me at the mere thought of it, delight, dread, oh, it’s impossible, but perhaps it’s possible, who really knows what’s possible and what’s not?

‘What are you up to, Olea?’ I ask, mostly just to have something to say.

‘Just drawing,’ Olea says.

‘She’s making Mum a birthday card,’ Marthe says.

‘You shouldn’t say that in case it’s a surprise,’ I say.

‘Of course, Mum,’ Marthe says, smiling while also managing to look bad-tempered.

‘Stop it now, you two,’ Mum says. ‘Is this about the cabin thing?’

‘No, no,’ I reply, taking Olea’s hand. I glance over at Marthe, but she just shrugs.