The pain au raisin is already half gone, and I take a pause to sigh. I ought to make a decision as soon as possible. They say a transition is smoother the younger you are when you start. And I’m eighteen, I’m still growing, technically, still on the tail end of puberty, so there’s time – but the clock is ticking. It’s not the kind of decision you want to rush into, though, that’s the thing.

My phone buzzes on the tabletop. It’s Dean. Nearly everyone else’s number is blocked now, anyway. Back a bit later than usual, the text says. Sorry.

How late is later?

I knew I should have taken my time with the pastry.

I move on to the orange instead. Slowly. Digging my nail in just enough that the peel comes off clean. I drop it a bit at a time on to my plate, and tug at all the strings of pith. I do this same thing every morning and I’m starting to realize that no matter how much I pick and fiddle, it’ll never be over, there will always be little bits of hanger-on pith attached to the segments and I’ll never have the Perfect Orange. Sometimes it’s just fun to try, I guess.

No problem, I text back. I’m still eating.

I wonder where he is? Not that it really matters. It’s not like anyone else has a clue, either.

Dean is short with fuzzy hair and a button nose, and he’s a live wire. He’s the ringleader, the one who gets us into trouble. He gets into scrapes and then can’t always get himself back out.

So, sometimes I worry a little. This is our biggest scrape yet, after all.

I lean my head down and rest it on my arms, watching the bits of peel sideways-on as they separate from the flesh of the orange. You can see tiny sprays of dust puff up from the pith when you look this close. I move my head a little more towards it, and the stubble on my chin scrapes at my forearm. I cringe. A bona fide grimace. I really should have packed a razor when we left.

Certainty number four: I do not like having facial hair, and I would like it to be gone permanently.

That, at least, I know.

This, and my breakfast routine – that’s what I have right now. I’m still not convinced it’s value for money, but Dean says not to worry. He shrugs his shoulders and says, “Well, we’ll be rich soon, won’t we? What’s another few quid? Just have the breakfast.”

He doesn’t seem to understand that the money is an Uncertainty. We haven’t got it yet and we might never see it at all. And we have nothing right now, we can’t afford to stay here any longer than one more night.

The thing about winning the Lottery, which we didn’t know, is that you aren’t supposed to tell anyone.

It isn’t a rule, not a law or anything like that. It’s just basic good advice, and it’s not something that anyone ever thought to tell two kids growing up in a tower block on the wrong side of town.