Just for a moment, she feels something tugging at her, like a whisper, as though she is dreaming and – far away – someone is trying to wake her up. A flicker of screaming, blood.

But Sarah ignores it. Nothing matters except for right now. She sets the fold-out table with plates and cutlery. The glasses she puts out are smudged with fingerprints, but the sun makes them sparkle; from a distance they look fine. She removes the sauce from the heat, switches off the cooker for now and sits on the little sofa in the living room, sliding down so that her head rests against the arm.

The radio plays, the sun dazzles in through the tiny window. It’s hard to see clearly against the glare. It’s easier if she simply closes her eyes. She thinks of that summer as a kid, with her cousin. Spinning the zoetrope, turning cartwheels on the lawn. Above her, the wasp traces lazy lines through the hot air of the flat. Sarah can hear it buzzing over the sound of the radio. She should probably be scared, but she isn’t really. To be honest, she isn’t scared of much any more. Maybe in some ways, it would be a relief. The wasp lands gently on the arm of the sofa. Sarah feels its tiny legs tangle in her hair.

It is so peaceful, lying here in the April warmth. When she feels something brush at her neck, she doesn’t mind. She pictures her guests arriving any minute: her parents, the ones she made from the stars. She focuses on how much she loves them, how much they love her. Nothing between them has ever been wrong. The world out there … but she lets the thought extinguish. She refuses to be anywhere else but here.

She can feel the wasp, softly tickling, on her neck. She reaches up a hand – but not to brush it away. With her palm, she makes a little cup over the creature. She feels it vibrate against her skin. It wants out, and she should let it go, but what if …?

What if?

She tightens her hand a little, trapping it. Hugging it close to her neck.

She just wants to sleep, honestly. Sink into a dream. That’s all she’s ever really wanted from this life. She knows the truth is that she never faced what happened. Never came to terms with it, never had the chance to try. She had to just cover the whole thing over, weave a dream life in which she could live. But it’s so tiring to keep all the pieces stitched together; she’s always, always at risk of falling through.

But if she could sleep – if she could sleep for ever … How glorious it would be to never have to wake up.