I dump the omelette onto a plate and cut it into sections. I help O cut hers because she still has a splint on her wrist. We tuck in.

‘The obvious thing to do is stop wearing your earring while you sleep. Don’t even leave it nearby.’

‘That’s not going to solve anything.’

‘It might give you a chance to recover your equilibrium. Sort out the difference between reality and dreams.’

‘I can tell the difference! Usually—’

O reaches across the table. She’s not touchy, O. She avoids physical contact with people, although I’ve seen her cuddling the birds and sometimes even Edgar, when he’s in a tolerant mood. Now she puts her hand on the table right beside my hand, which is as close as she gets to intimacy, I guess.

‘You’ve been through a lot.’

For some stupid reason, her sympathy breaks me. I stand up. I’m blinking back tears.

‘Going to do pigeons,’ I blurt, and she graciously ignores my blubbery voice. I put on my rubber gloves and grab my tools, and I head out on the roof to clean the cages. It’s a relief to open the cage door and watch the birds fly. Everything’s blurry through tears, but I hear them rise into the rain-streaked city sky, their wings making high-pitched whirring noises, and as they leave me behind for rarer climes, I turn to their coop to clean up the poo. I cry and cry. I produce so much snot, I have to go back inside for an extra rag. O’s in her room, but the door is ajar and I can hear her talking to someone.

‘Watchful waiting for now,’ she says. ‘I have it under control. I’ll contact you when I know more, but don’t reach out to me again.’

She’d better not be fucking talking to my parents. I’ve half a mind to storm in there and demand to know who she’s discussing me with, but something in her tone of voice makes me think better of it. Not sure I want to add ‘paranoid’ to the list of my characteristics which already includes ‘delusional’. Sure, she sounds cold; but this is O. She’s always been dry and secretive. And she just might think again about this room-mate arrangement if there’s too much drama.

Still, when she’s in the shower I sneak into her room and have a quick rummage. Behind her bedside table I find some dried, scrunched-up tissues and the tiny backpack that was strapped to Sidney the pigeon. I seize it, but it’s empty.

Then I find a tiny scrap of paper, all crumpled up. I grab it and run back to my own room before O can catch me.

No sooner have I shut my door than Shandy pings me.

Got your message. Let’s coffee. I’ll come to yours, closer to work.