‘Thanks,’ Sylvie said.

In the background, she could hear familiar music, familiar voices, a familiar dog barking at something. Harlow talked about what was happening at home, about Aarav. He was okay, Harlow said, he was recovering. Neither of them mentioned the obvious fact that was growing inside her, but every word felt cumbersome with the knowledge of it. Nor did she mention the gun that was lying beside her, or the red box of bullets, which she had spotted on the bedside table.

‘I wish I could touch you,’ Harlow said.

Sylvie was imagining going through their shared belongings, separating his from hers.

‘I love you,’ Harlow tried, at last.

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘You too,’ although she wasn’t sure if she did, or even, really, what that meant.

To love someone else.

To be someone else, that’s what she was thinking about. To be two people at once. To drag a tiny human filled with teeth and blood into the world, with your own body, against your will.

‘Okay well, have fun then,’ Harlow said. ‘I mean, you know. Be okay. Call me. Try not to crash the car.’

Movie night was the only time of the week — other than the doctor’s visit, every second Tuesday — when all the residents could gather together. Still, most of them clearly preferred not to, and there was only a dozen or so people scattered among the rows of plastic chairs, or eating dutifully at trestle tables in the corner, when Sylvie arrived at the hall. The room was humid, and smelt of fried garlic and cumin, which she found intensely unpleasant. She had not felt like eating with the residents of an old persons’ home, and she was glad now of that decision.

Tonight’s movie was called Terminator 2. Joe was standing in front of the screen, introducing it. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

‘What we have here,’ he said, ‘is one of the great cinematic monsters of all time.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Carla from the front row. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

A short, grim woman in a red dress said something into Joe’s ear. This must be Deb, Sylvie figured, the woman Joe employed to help run the place, and with who, Sylvie suspected, he pursued some kind of on-again, off-again affair.

Old people continued limping back and forth, and one of them, a fat, bearded man, approached Sylvie.

Don’t talk to me, she pleaded silently, knowing, of course, that he would.

The man smiled and eased himself down into the chair beside her. Ignoring Joe, who was still talking, he introduced himself. His name was James.

‘I usually give flowers to ladies,’ James said, ‘but I only have this synthetic peyote.’ He opened his hand to reveal a large blue tablet.

Sylvie almost laughed. ‘No thanks,’ she said.

James nodded ceremoniously. ‘Bless you,’ he said, as if she had sneezed. Then he sat back, closed his eyes, and began breathing heavily.