‘Nothing to tell.’ Enough already. I really don’t want to talk about any of that stuff. It does worry me though, that if we get out of here I would be sent back there. I try on the mantra: Anyplace but home, but it doesn’t quite have the same ring as when I first thought it up back in Hatchet’s place.

‘What have you written, Roomie?’

‘No thing. I not write since I leaved, left, my village.’

I’m struck by an idea that might get us both going. ‘Ok, so, let’s play the make-up-a-story game that I used to play in drama class. I say one sentence, you say another, and so on … until we have finished. You ready? It has to start “Once upon a time …” I’ll start: once upon a time there was a house in the middle of nowhere and in this house were girls ripped from all corners of the world …’

She interrupts insistently, ‘No, no. This story must be happy one.’

‘Tragic stories often do have happy endings,’ I tell her.

‘How about this: Once … upon … a … time,’ she looks at me for approval and I nod, ‘there were two girls of different countries who become friends and …’ she stops and gestures at me to continue. Her face is lit up, animated in a way I’ve never seen before. It’s as if she’s forgotten where we are, who we are, what we are, and she’s back in her school, gathering her gold stars.

‘God, this is going to be shite, Miss Twee. And anyway, you can’t stop at “and” – it’s got to be a full sentence.’

She sighs dramatically, in full-on actress mode, having taken up my mantle, and she starts to babble excitedly. ‘Ok … the two friends broke a window and climbed out to the top of the house … roof?’ she asks. I nod. ‘The wind said, Giddyup, girls,’ she makes a clucking sound with her tongue, ‘and when they stood on roof with men climbing at them, the clouds took the space of two big horses, galloping.’ Then she mimes getting on a horse and waving down at the men, spitting at them.

Is this really the same Nico? I’m getting a glimpse of that girl who liked to run, to climb trees, swim in lakes and make up stories. The same girl I saw briefly as she bounced up and down on our bed, shouting ‘FUCK’ over and over at the top of her voice.

‘This morning, I was playing that cloud game with myself and I saw horses in the sky too … but they were cantering, not galloping … I swear to my fucking tutu-clad fairy!’

‘What is difference – gallop or can-ter?’ she says, her voice speedy.

‘Well, gallop is faster.’

‘Then they gallop, no?’

‘I think we’re both pure fantasists.’