Another pause. Maybe the foster carer’s waiting for another sign. I know she wants to come and sit on the edge of the bed and give me her advice up close. She needn’t bother. I know what’s coming next.

“It’s just … Charlene, no one wants to get drawn into the court system if they can help it.” She sighs again. “I know that from experience.”

I’m supposed to ask, “What experience?” But I’m too tired to want to know right now.

“The police might give you a youth caution,” the carer says. “If you admit you did it.”

I did admit it.

“And they might set up a meeting for you to apologise to the other person.”

I look out of the window. The sky looks like dark grey wool with patches of white for the street lights.

“I’m not saying sorry to no one,” I say.

“It’s up to you then.” The foster carer doesn’t say this, but I hear it in my head like the air said it instead.

“OK, Charlene,” she says. “I’m going to have a quick bath, unless you want to go first.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “I’ll have a shower later.” Then I ask, “Have you heard how Blake’s doing?”

She looks a bit surprised. Even in the shadows I can see her face soften. I want to laugh. She thinks that actually I am sorry. I’m not. I just need to know if there’s permanent damage to Blake’s hand. That’s gonna help decide what happens next.

“No news yet,” she says, “but I’ll let you know when I hear.”

I nod and smile. “Thank you,” I say.

She nods back and closes the door gently.

I stay there for a while looking out onto the street. My brain’s all muffled up. When I’m knitting, it’s like the stress is unwinding itself from inside my head. Now I can’t think properly.

I should slip myself between those clean covers and try to sleep. I need my energy for tomorrow, when I find out where I’m gonna live next. But who knows how long I’ll even stay there? This time next year I could be in prison.

I can see Blake in court right now. Nice, neat white boy. Hair combed all smooth. Smart suit like Roberto’s. Telling the judge how he gave up his bedroom for the poor foster girl. How he’s been working so hard at university. How, yes, he did mash up her knitting, but was it worth this? He holds up his hand. Now it hurts when he tries to write his essays. He can’t even open jars, or tie up his trainer laces – because he’s on his uni’s athletics team too. Of course he is.