They lived in a bungalow in North Hollywood, a block from Laurel Canyon Boulevard. Whenever she went out to the car, especially this early in the morning, she could usually smell eucalyptus on the air, cypress too, and hear the fronds of the palm tree in her yard snapping in the breeze. One or two of her neighbours would normally be up as well: Ricardo, opposite them, always rose early – she’d often come out and find him on his front porch, with a coffee and a newspaper; there was a young guy in his twenties too, five houses down from them, a jogger whose name she didn’t know, but who always headed east towards the freeway and North Hollywood Park. Not this morning, though.

It was already in the low seventies and there wasn’t a breath of wind, not even a murmur. But there were no people outside either, no sounds drifting from open windows or from doorways that had been left ajar. Every single window in the road was shut; every last door locked. For months now, when people slept, their houses were sealed like a tomb and they kept a gun under their pillow.

It was why, before leaving the house, Jo had watched Ethan for a while, standing inside his bedroom as she’d quietly eaten her breakfast, worried about his cold, but worrying more about what sort of world they would be sending their son out into. Would it always be this bad? Deep down, as she’d stood there watching him, she’d known the answer. She saw it every day when she went to work. Nothing got better. Perhaps the best she could hope for was that it stayed the same.

By the time she was done with her breakfast, the emotion had formed like a lump at the bottom of her throat, and when she leaned over the crib and kissed her son lightly on the cheek, a tear blurred in one of her eyes. I love you so much, baby boy. She straightened, cleared her head, made sure Ethan’s windows were definitely locked, and then did the same with all the windows and doors in their home, the sound of the fans disguising her movement as she went from room to room. She finished in the kitchen, where, bleary-eyed, Ira was busy making eggs.

‘I’ve got to go to a scene in Hollywood first, but I’ll be in the office after that.’ She put her bowl in the sink. ‘Any emergencies, just page me.’

‘Emergencies? Like, emergency food orders? Because I was talking to a client yesterday and he said there’s a new Italian place on Ventura that does killer takeout.’

‘Is that a fact?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

They smiled at each other.

‘He’ll be fine,’ Ira said. ‘It’s only a cold.’

‘I know. I just don’t like seeing him like this.’