That was the plan, anyway, but by Thursday afternoon, Sylvie realised she couldn’t do it. She was still three hours away, and the map said there was a place called Esperance up ahead, which was still going. She clicked on it. It had a service station and a motel. She clicked on the motel, skipped through a short promotional video. The place looked okay. Or not nightmarish, anyway, and the reviews weren’t terrible. She zoomed out again. There was an Italian restaurant in the main street — La Strada Affamata — and a pub with no obvious fascist paraphernalia. She took the car off autopilot, unzipped the Vista — a view of lush Asian jungle — and pulled onto the exit, which was lined on either side, she saw now, by long rows of blackened trunks, from which luminous green foliage had begun to sprout. A fire had come through not so long ago, but Esperance had survived, apparently. So she would sleep in Esperance and give herself another night to think about it. Maybe she’d feel stronger in the morning. Or maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d drive straight through and forget all about it. Two years, three years. What difference would it make?

But when she got to Esperance, she saw that the map was wrong. The whole town had been abandoned. The streets were empty. There was graffiti smeared across everything.

She pulled over and parked beneath a flaking sign that said Esperance Sands Motel and got out of the car.

Dull heat. The loneliness of wind across sandy fields. No birds, just flecks of black plastic, and higher up, she guessed, the sturdier bodies of tiny drones.

She walked across the road, not knowing what she was looking for, then through the motel carpark and out under a brown-brick archway that led to the rear of the building. Far-off dogs barked. Rubbish skittered past.

Standing beside the empty swimming pool, she spoke to her watch. She’d been offline almost twelve hours. Much more than that would raise alarms. The screen shimmered open, and she approved connect. One hundred and eighty-five messages. Fifty-seven fresh videos. Thirty-one calls. Harlow. Frida. Her mum. The office. Both bar jobs. The government loans office. Her SkinSuit required updating. Her credit rating had dropped three points. Also, new emergency procedures, and a bunch of automated government messages requesting her to verify her identity, because she’d been offline for more than eight hours. The accumulated messages disgorged their tiny vibrations through her. Twelve hours’ worth. A rush. She sifted for Harlow.

Seventeen fresh videos.

She chose the most recent. Nine minutes ago.

He appeared to be sitting on the edge of a skyscraper, strumming a dumb tune on his guitar. His legs dangling in fluffy clouds.

‘Oh baby, you’re still offline,’ he sang. ‘I want you to come back and be mine oh mine.’

In the distance, Mount Fuji or something was disgorging rainbow coloured love-hearts.