Oh. Wow! He’s forwarded photos of him at Glastonbury last year. He is so good-looking. Too good-looking for me. Except if he didn’t like me, he wouldn’t bother sending all these messages.

That thought makes me feel sunny inside, so I send him a flurry of sunshine emojis.

‘. . . they’re good lads, but you might hear them swearing,’ DL is saying.

‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ I say, ‘I have heard people swear before.’

He doesn’t reply and eventually I look up from my phone to see he’s grinning wider than a YouTuber who’s just gone viral.

‘What?’

‘You called me Dad.’

‘Oh.’ I stop. Weird. ‘Yeah. Well, you are my dad. It’s no big deal, is it?’

That’s not true. It is a huge deal. But what’s even more amazing is that it felt so natural I didn’t even notice I’d said it.

As I follow my father out of the hospital, the sun shines even brighter.

‘We’re here, Casey. You’re about to see that my life isn’t all penthouses and jam sessions.’

I put my phone away. Whoa, this is ultra-real. Dad told me he was a lecturer, but I can’t see a college. We’re surrounded by brick buildings covered in graffiti tags, and the only one with lights on has a big sign: SOUTH BRISTOL CAN-DO TRADE AND CRAFT WORKSHOP.

Inside smells of wood and varnish and . . . ugh, sweat. The warehouse is huge: each workbench has its own halo of light, where men are working. It’s like Santa’s workshop, except the elves are wearing hoodies instead of pointy hats.

‘It’s full-on at first, but you’ll get used to it,’ Dad says.

Dad. I like how that sounds in my head. ‘I’m tougher than you think.’

He smiles at me. ‘You’re tougher than any of this lot.’ He reaches for something on a shelf. ‘But your ears aren’t. Put these ear defenders on.’

They’re like the world’s ugliest headphones and they’re tight, but at least they muffle the sounds.

‘. . . can’t you, Finn? Casey, meet Finn. He’ll look after you while I do a bit of catching up in the office.’

Dad’s talking to this big lad wearing a Tupac T-shirt. A cherry blush spreads in big blotches up his throat to the top of his shaved head.

‘Hi,’ I say and I wave, but he stares down at his trainers.

Dad smiles at him. ‘Show her what you’re working on. But don’t let her touch anything dangerous. She’s my girl and she’s precious to me.’

Finn looks scared now, even though he must be eighteen or nineteen and weighs three times as much as me.

‘What are you making?’ I ask.

‘Eh?’

‘WHAT ARE YOU MAKING?’ I shout.

‘BIRD BOX,’ he shouts back.

‘DO YOU LIKE BIRDS?’

Around us, I see the guys laughing. The ear defenders squash my skull, which is not good when you’ve got a brain tumour.

‘Fuck off!’ Finn snaps at them, but then glances apologetically at me. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘LET’S GO TO THE SHOP.’