A middle-sized tent this time. Fifteen women sit cross-legged on the floor. On their laps, balls of wool, and in their hands, knitting needles.

Click, clack. Swoop of wool. Repeat.

It’s a crazy scene, surreal. I’m used to hippies, but this is next level.

‘Just finished another.’ A woman wearing a poncho and feathers in her hair holds up a pink beanie with triangular ears on top. She puts it in the centre, increasing the pile of finished beanies. Why the beanies all have cat ears, I have no idea.

Autumn waves at us and shuffles the other women over to make space. She introduces me to the knitting-tent organiser, Bonnie, and to the other women sitting close by. One has a long side-plait that reminds me of Mum; another is a touch punk rock with bright purple hair-ends and black fingernails. There’s a pretty blonde girl who looks like she’s straight out of a TV sitcom, the only giveaway a tattoo peeking from under her sleeve.

They welcome me, saying how relieved they are I was found. I tell them I’m sorry, remembering again how my impulsive actions created a chain of reactions causing those I care about, and even strangers, to worry.

Melody finds some extra needles and gets my first row started, showing me how to knit. I find it hard to concentrate. Just twelve hours ago, I was having a special dinner with my father, and we were finally getting to know each other. My fingers are jittery and I drop stitches as a zillion thoughts race around my head, flashes of our restaurant dinner on replay. When Bonnie sees how distracted I am, she asks if I want to help prepare the yarn or attach the tags. I go for the tags and soon, with the repetition of tying the small strips with Women’s Rights are Human Rights #pussycat project on them to the inside of every completed hat, along with the sound of women chatting and the mellow atmosphere, my brain slows. With Melody and Autumn on either side, my shoulders relax, breaths deepen.

A flask of hot herbal tea is passed around, and someone puts on music. One of Mum’s favourites, Joni Mitchell.

The women start humming, their voices disorganised but harmonious, and I can’t help but join in. Weirdly, it feels like home.

‘How are you feeling, love?’ Melody asks.

‘All over the place,’ I say.

‘Like how? Try to name the emotions, one by one.’

I look at Melody, so see-through with her Dr Phil, self-help, meditation-camp techniques again. But for now, I don’t mind. I stop tying on tags and think.