The day passes slowly, seeps into evening. The sky through her rooflight window is high and pale. The sounds of her housemates coming in, the clatter of pans, the smells of cooking. Someone smoking in the yard; the smell of it 15turning her stomach. Is anything happening yet? Eat and drink as normal, the website says, avoiding alcohol in case it skews your judgement. She hasn’t felt hungry all day, has eaten just granola bars, handfuls of Crunchy Nut Corn Flakes. One of her housemates taps on her door. Is she ok? Yeah, fine, she says, period cramps. Oh God, poor you, I’ve Nurofen if you want? Nah, thanks a million but I’ve got some here. Fair do’s. Here, we’re going for a pint in a bit if you feel any better. Thanks, I reckon I’ll just stay here, though, watch something. Ok, cool, give us a shout sure if you need anything. Cool, seeya. Bye.

The sky is streaked with pink now. Her phone beeps with a text from her mum: her grandma has been taken to the Ulster again, another chest infection. Every time it happens they think it’s going to be it this time, but it somehow never is, and after a five-day course of antibiotics Grandma’s discharged back to the nursing home to lie corroding in her rubber-sheeted bed. She can’t think what to text back. Does her mum mean she should visit? She can’t set foot in a hospital: what if it started happening there, in front of all the nurses and doctors? (If there are complications and you have to go to hospital, don’t tell them. They can’t tell, and they don’t have to know. The treatment in any case will be the same. No tests can prove what you’ve taken, what you’ve done.) She starts to reply, deletes it. Her phone beeps again. Don’t mean to alarm you, her mum says, it’s the same sad old story, just thought you’d want to know. A string of x’s and o’s. Then a third message: Are you back for Sunday lunch? 16

She blinks. Sunday. Sunday lunch. Hope so, she replies, then, Sorry, in middle of essay crisis. Sorry to hear about Grandma.

Dad’s with her now, her mum says. It’s just so very sad, isn’t it. Poor Dad.

I’ll text him, she says.

A few minutes later her mum sends another text: Good luck with essay! followed by a fountain pen emoji, some books, a cup of coffee and a hamster head. Then another text: Sorry! That was meant to be a lucky cat. Need my glasses!