The truncated family were still in the semi-private little nest they’d carved out for themselves in a corner of the theatre — three cots and a cupboard — and they were settling down to sleep.

Ted held his mobile phone out to Jane.

Jane answered it, and then held it away from her ear, as if it was hot.

“How did he get my number, Dad?”

Ted just grinned, of course, a look that had infuriated her since long before her fourteenth birthday, when the old fool had first started to meddle in her love life. He turned away on his cot, and picked up the dog-eared copy of The Day of the Triffids that was doing the rounds of the Rest Centre’s informal lending library.

Jack was already asleep.

She didn’t have much choice.

“What do you want?”

And how are you? I’m amazed you’re still there.

“Your pet the Moonseed hasn’t been doing too many of its tricks recently.”

It’s working subsurface.

“That’s it, look on the bright side.”

You’ve only gone six miles in three weeks. You’re crazy.

“But things have calmed down here, Henry. You ought to see it. The evacuation has become a lot more orderly. There are even classes for the kids. The Government seem to be thinking long term now.”

Long term?

“Where to locate the thousands — hundreds of thousands — who had to flee Edinburgh, how to feed and house them, how to find them new jobs. How to rebuild the businesses that were lost. We’ve been helping to run the Rest Centre.” She ruffled her sleeping son’s hair. “Even Jack.” Maybe especially Jack. “You learn things about yourself.” Like, I’ve learned I can stop a fist fight over a smuggled-in bottle of booze. “Ted doesn’t want to leave until he’s sure about Michael.”

You should have gotten further away.

She shifted, folding her legs on the bed and propping her chin on her knees. “You’re getting irritating, Henry.”

At least you’re not paying for the call.

Anyway, she hadn’t wanted to go further. She was comfortable here. If she was honest with herself, she knew that if she moved, she would have to face the bigger picture again, and she was reluctant to do that if she didn’t have to. Here, she was in control, at least of the small things in her life.

The psychology of disaster: denial, anger, withdrawal, acceptance. It dismayed her to look into her own heart and find herself working her way through the textbook.

“So where are you? The Moon?”

Might as well be. I’m heading for Washington. Trying to get them to take me seriously.

“Any success?”