The night passes and I do not sleep, my nails digging deep into my palms, my teeth clamped tight. In the morning, Petre say to Magda, ‘It’s time. Remember what I told you?’ The door slams. I open my eyes a crack to see Magda staring at me. ‘We’re going to get in a big car now and there’ll be other girls, ok?’ I nod. She plumps the pillows behind my back and helps me to sit. ‘I want you to eat something,’ and she hands me a dry biscuit, which I nibble and swallow slowly. ‘Here,’ she says, handing me a glass of water. It burns when I swallow.

‘We have to hurry,’ she says, as she helps me out of the bed and into the bathroom. She gets a toothbrush and tells me to open wide. She squirts a minty paste into my mouth that tingles, in a different way to the baking soda solution Mama makes at home, and brushes it against my teeth. She asks me to open wider and scrapes down my tongue. I am loose and floppy.

‘Now, we are all going to be very quiet today and there is to be no repeating of the screaming yesterday. Always remember: it’s easier if you go with it. Over quicker that way. Do you understand?’

I think of Mama’s words about there being no fighting with fate, I think of the dog’s sore neck, and Luca’s chest, heaving – and I nod.

We leave the room, and she is pulling a big pink suitcase on wheels. I ask her where my bag is, and she says, ‘Probably in the sea. You didn’t want to wear those awful clothes, did you?’

My notebook is floating around in the sea. I wonder if it has sunk or if it’s on its way somewhere. My cheeks flare – I don’t want anyone reading those words. I feel stupid now in daylight dressed in this party frock, like a toddler. We walk along the corridor and this time when I look out the round windows I can see blue. Maybe the sea changes colour depending on the sky above.

We get to a staircase, and at the top I can see Petre and the two girls, who look filthy and pale, flattened, not at all like the girls that jumped into the car yesterday full of fizz. They notice me at the bottom of the stairs. Petre looks at them and puts a finger to his lips.

The movement stops, and I can feel the hum ebb away. It’s strange when the noise is no longer buzzing in my ears. Magda squeezes my hand; hers is wet, and I wish she would let me go. ‘Welcome to Italy,’ she whispers.