I hoped they were wrong. And also hoped soon to hear a more authentic French accent. Earlier through the stairwell window, I’d seen a woman in a brown raincoat emerging from a yellow convertible. Though her face was obscured by a patterned brown umbrella, I was sure it was Sabine.

When by Pot Noodle time she hadn’t materialized, I finally approached the shift leader. She shook her plaited buns: she’d never heard of anyone by that name. I checked with Lizard, who said he hadn’t either. Earl said she might be a newbie on the opposite team, the ones who did the work during our fortnights off. Maybe I was wrong then, maybe I hadn’t seen her. “Maybe she’s my opposite?” I said.

“Yours is a twenty-stone bloke,” said Lizard.

“Who’s been doing the job for as many years,” added Earl.

I wondered out loud why Mr. Twenty-Twenty hadn’t shown me the ropes.

“He’s in Bangkok,” said Earl.

I gathered then that with this job when you were off, you were off—and I couldn’t wait.

Working nights made me feel unexpectedly constrained. You never got to say, “See you tomorrow”; it was always, “See you later.” You never got the blank slate of a fresh, new day. My press packs were shoddy; my clients continually complained. The shift leader said not to worry, that I’d improve with experience. But, since my body was incapable of sleep by day, I hardly intended to give experience a chance.

Instead, I promised myself to look for other work once the fortnight was up. I promised the same to Graham, whom I’d not seen since starting because it was all I could do to get by. With my autopilot gone AWOL, I expended my energy on instructions to put food in my mouth, smear soap over my body, stand under the shower until it washed off, and then lie pointlessly in bed.

One night, I leaned back against a concrete pillar in the toilets. Doing something I’ve never managed before or since, standing dead upright I fell asleep.

Sherry shook me awake. “Babes, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I said, embarrassed to be caught off guard.

“You’re sure?”

“Just tired.”

“Come to the pub after work.”

“I don’t fancy drinking in the morning.”

“Sorts out the sleep problem,” she said. “Mother’s milk.”

At the basin, I ran the cold tap full volume over my wrists. A teacher at school had said this would cool your blood supply. Perhaps cooler blood would make me more alert.

Instead a bump against my hips jolted me. Winking at my reflection in the mirror, Sherry said, “We could be sisters! You and I!”

Sherry was the off-grid version of the day-job woman who’d called Sabine her daughter. Had Sherry called me her daughter, it might have been OK. But, sister?