By the time her whole body is nearly numb with cold, she hears her name being called. This time there is a strong light growing out of the main path. ‘Is that you, Lauren?’

She freezes. It’s a woman’s voice. Diane, scruffy and confused, walking up from the fields.

Lauren calls out and Diane shines the torch towards her, then runs, her army jacket flapping. Lauren looks down in the waving light at her own clothes for streaks of blood. As Diane runs, Lauren notices she is looking past her, into the tall trees. When she arrives, she hugs Lauren close, taking them both by surprise.

‘I couldn’t get any sleep, so thought I might as well try looking for her,’ Diane says.

Lauren realizes her friend is wearing a heavy backpack. She smells like stale peaches and smoke. She hugs Lauren closer and rubs her back methodically. ‘You’re freezing. Thank God I found you.’ Her face is a mask of ivory-crème foundation that has sunken overnight into the uneven acne it was trying to hide, making her skin look as if it is cracking.

‘Thank you,’ Lauren says, her teeth chattering involuntarily. ‘What time is it?’

‘Five thirty,’ Diane says absently. She stays next to Lauren, but shines her torch into the trees around them, and then looks back over her shoulder. Lauren is so close she can see Diane’s eyes are scared under their dark, clumpy lids; she sees how young she really is.

Diane is paying attention again. ‘How’d you even get here? God.’ Her tongue piercing clicks against her teeth as she talks. She unzips her bag and digs out a woollen jumper and bobble hat that Lauren pulls on.

‘I was looking for—’ Lauren’s ribcage is cold and tight, like the icy bonnet of a car. She tries to catch her breath.

‘That was really dangerous.’ Diane’s voice is faint and her eyes keep flicking sideways and up ahead. ‘I just need to see something.’ She leaves Lauren and sprints a little further into the black, her backpack jostling against her shoulders.

‘What are you doing?’ Lauren’s voice is starting to sound as hoarse as Diane’s. The early morning is still and silent and her words carry.

She hears a murmur from the dark trees and trudges up towards it. She finds Diane crouching on top of a huge tree trunk. Diane puts her pinkies in her mouth and whistles. There is a leaf-rustling and twig-snapping behind her and a dog leaps out over the snowy bracken. It’s Lola, Diane’s grey and white lurcher, who bounds up to Lauren and pants stinky warm breath in her face. Diane coughs into the icy air and pulls out a creased packet of Richmonds from her pocket. Her hands are red with the cold and her nails flake purple glitter.

‘Are you up here looking for Ann-Marie?’ Lauren asks cautiously.