I go back to the bedroom and sit on a sill beneath the window, which I open as far as it will go, only a crack. Outside, there are lots of houses, all the same, all concrete, most of them unfinished and empty, with builders’ tools lying about, including one of those round cement mixers that Maria’s papa had hired to build an extension that never got finished. There is the beginning of a playground, with a ladder and a slide made of mirrors, and two swings that look like no one has ever sat on them. I think of our swinging tyres, suspended between two maple trees in the field across from the house, and the hours we used to spend screeching through the air. These trees are saplings, newly planted and skinny. None of them are big enough to climb, or to support the weight of a body, swinging. The sunshine of the early morning has given way to grey cloud, and the sky is low and heavy.

I take out the pen and notebook and stare at it. ‘My Summer Holidays’ by Nicoleta Zanesti. Those days are gone. I write Day 1 in the Cream House on the first blank page, and think of Magda telling the girls to keep count. How much am I even worth? I stare at the whiteness of the paper, and worry that by writing it down it will only make it more real, so I close the pages, close my eyes, and try very hard to think of nothing at all.

‘Hiya, Roomie, what ya doing?’ She doesn’t even bother knocking; she is wrapped in a towel, her hair soaking and dripping onto the carpet. She repeats herself loudly and slowly, ‘What are you doing?’

I understood her the first time. ‘No thing,’ I say, speaking low, hoping my tone will influence hers, the way Mama used to speak around Papa when his energy was loud and vexed, after having drunk too much Rachiu. She bangs around the room and dries herself off in front of me, fully naked. I turn my back and stare out at the grey.

‘Where are you from?’ she says.

‘Romania,’ I say, the practiced lie slipping out of me.

‘Cool. Never been there. What’s it like?’

‘It is no thing special.’ I surprise myself again with how good my English is. Miss Smith would be proud. I see her smiling face and bite down hard on the inside of my cheek.

‘Ever been to good ole Dub before?’

I think back to geography. Where is ‘good ole Dub’? Dub. I shake my head.

‘Bit of a shithole,’ she says, laughing again. ‘Never stops raining.’ She looks out the window. ‘Yup, those clouds are going to burst their skin any moment now.’

I wonder why everything is a joke with this girl. Is rain really that funny?

‘Have you been anywhere else? This place is seriously weird. Could be anywhere.’