I mulled it over as Nesbit and I weaved amongst the trees, stopping to admire the wildflowers or chew on an old pine cone, not at all accidentally ambling in the vague direction of Sam’s house. As we walked and soaked up the peace and beauty of the forest, I had to acknowledge that being out here was like a massage to my stressed-out soul. My breathing slowed, the anxious thoughts settled, and the tension in my stomach and shoulders gradually eased. By the time we’d completely failed to locate either Sam’s house or the path back to Bigley, I’d made my mind up. Once I’d passed the same picnic clearing for the third time, which thankfully turned out to have a tiny blip of internet connection so I could figure out the rough direction for home, I’d convinced myself that sooner rather than later was the time to do it.

Item seven: a weekend hiking and camping in Bigley Forest Park.

I spent most of my free time for the next couple of weeks planning and prepping for the big trip. While I knew one night in a tent less than five miles from home wasn’t that exciting to some people, it was a huge deal to me and I was unashamedly treating it as such. I couldn’t find anything online about whether camping was permitted in the forest park, so I did the next best thing and asked around (I would of course have loved to have asked Sam, but I didn’t have his phone number, he was nowhere on social media and it didn’t seem like a good enough reason to drive over to his house).

Jaxx, who had a Tuesday session that week, assured me that it was fine. ‘Everyone does it! Me’n the boys’ve had some mad weekends there. Bevvies and a tin of hot dogs round the campfire. Bigley tradition, innit. Hey – Nomato would go perfect on a hot dog. Here, take another sample.’

To my relief, he didn’t ask what I’d thought of the first sample, which had gone straight into the bin.

On Wednesday, Yasmin was horrified. ‘Why do you care if it is officially allowed or not? All I can say is, it shouldn’t be! Sleeping on the ground with no running water or electricity is not nice. This is why we have jobs and earn money, and come to countries where we can have a proper front door with a lock.’ She wrung her hands together, the scars a glittering, silver web against her skin. ‘Please promise me that if you do this foolish thing, you will not take Nesbit.’

Thankfully, before I had a chance not to promise, Trev arrived in his blue shirt, face glowing, head covered in a bandana made of fabric covered in dachshunds.