I change channels and find the international weather forecast. Bright yellow suns are plastered over most of Africa. Edging up towards the Middle East, there’s the odd grey cloud. Temperatures reaching fifty. I sit on the edge of the bed, the lukewarm beer sitting on my teeth, my tongue. The map rotates and focuses on the Middle East and India, corners of Southeast Asia almost visible. I long to see white clouds or, optimistically, yellow suns. As the map rotates once more, grey fuzz fills the screen with an unpleasant buzz and the telly cuts out. My room goes black.

Is this my cue to go to bed? Dive beneath the covers?

Another smash outside, further away, tells me another plant pot has suffered the worst. I fear the broken terracotta shards are going to be swept against the windows, breaking them and shooting into my room. Shooting into me.

Oh, stop with the drama. Stop!

SMASH!!

A series of smashes continue. I want to hide; my instinct is to shelter, but there are glass windows surrounding me from two opposing angles and I don’t know where to go apart from the floor. I’m being ridiculous. I can’t lie on the floor.

The lights flicker back on.

The telly remains off.

The noise isn’t as intrusive now that I can see again, but God, my heart is pounding. Pounding like a drum; and that’s not an exaggeration or me trying to be poetic. My chest feels like a spacious cage, a heavy thudding within. I place my palm against it, calming my heart down. My knees are weak and hollow and I want to cry. I’m scared. I really am. I’m terrified. God, I’m so terrified that I can’t cry. It’s too much effort; too much of a decision to make; and I focus on keeping my heart pressed, secure, in fear of it exploding.

I don’t want to be alone.

And nothing can comfort me. No phone, no telly. I’m far too distracted to read.

I drink more, swigging the beer until it’s gone. Then I go to the door, open it and run to Justin’s room. I bang on his door loudly, pounding with my fists – the only way he’ll hear me against this racket. I duck down, afraid of something dangerous being blown into me.

His door opens, but only a fraction. He has the chain on.

I can’t hear what he’s saying – the wind is deafening – but he’s struggling to open the door. Something must be stuck. I crouch down further, shielding my head with my arms. Finally, I’m pulled upwards and hauled inside. I slam the door shut with my foot and stand there, breathing heavily, my hands pushed against the back of the door.

‘Did you manage to check your emails?’ I ask. No idea why.