‘My family are big into racing so I took my brother for his birthday. But it was such a long flight for a short trip. Also, I work long hours and when I get a break the last thing I want to do is this.’ She nods ahead to the twisting hordes of people.

‘Fair enough. I got the travelling bug hard. Tried to do Europe this summer, but I only managed like four cities before I got stuck in Barcelona. You been?’

‘No.’

He throws his head back, ‘Ah, you should go. It’s the perfect city. It’s got nightlife, the beach and the mountains. I didn’t want to come home.’

The queue moves slowly and as they make their way towards the gate, he keeps talking. ‘Really want to do the States next. Few of my friends are thinking of hiring a car and doing the Route 66 thing. I can’t drive, but I really want to go along.’

She tiptoes to look ahead, but the queue seems to merge into a crowd, it’s as if there’s no way out.

‘Besides trainers and ketamine, travelling is the only thing I’m genuinely interested in.’

‘What?’ she asks.

‘Oh, so you are listening?’ Kiama laughs.

‘Yes. Sorry.’ She wrings her hands and wonders how much small talk he’ll need and if he’ll insist on catching up with her for the whole of the journey.

‘You look like the spa break type,’ he says. ‘Country hotels, that sort of thing. Am I right?’

‘I love being outdoors. Running mostly.’

He scrunches his nose. ‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ she answers, bringing to mind the utter serenity of her favourite spots, places where she can run for hours without having to interact with anyone. Places so far from here, this too-busy, too-bright space.

‘I never get people who run for fun. Have you done the marathon?’

‘No, because that pretty much represents the complete opposite of everything I like about running.’

The air-hostess smiles as he checks their passports and tickets and they walk on and find their seats. Yvonne takes the window. She fastens her seatbelt and closes her eyes, hoping Kiama won’t continue to talk the whole journey.

Once airborne he undoes his belt and pulls out two Toblerones. ‘For you,’ he hands her one. ‘Can’t fly without.’

He puts in his EarPods and settles into watching something, but he’s still distracting, laughing out loud at his screen and nudging her to look at the things he finds amusing.

She takes her water from her bag and downs a Zopiclone, the sleeping tablet her doctor prescribed as her anxiety around the trip began to surge.

The last thing she remembers is Kiama snapping off triangles of chocolate.

Then his hand on her shoulder as he tries to wake her up. ‘We’re landing in five minutes.’

‘Already?’ she asks rubbing her eyes.