‘I’m sure you can. Where did he follow you from?’

‘Well from near here.’ My intestines curl into knots. Joe.

‘I didn’t notice at first,’ he continues, ‘but he was there every time I looked up until I got home.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Normal enough. Forties. Bald. Can’t remember what he was wearing.’

•

That evening I get back to the house we’re renting and find July and Gabe watching TV in the lounge.

‘Where’s Evan?’ I ask, putting my bag down on the table.

‘He’s up in his room,’ July says. ‘Been up there for hours.’

Gabe bought him a new computer this morning, another thing I hope the insurance will cover. As long as it’s the same model so they can’t deny the claim, Gabe had promised. ‘Is he gaming?’

July turns back to me and shrugs. I see pots boiling away on the stove.

I climb the stairs and knock on his door. There is no response, just silence on the other side of the door. ‘Evan?’ I call.

A few more seconds, then I knock harder. ‘Evan, I’m coming in.’

I push the door open. The curtains are closed. I scan the dark of the room. I can see he has put up a poster on the wall to make it feel more like home and his computer is all set up in the corner. Then I see a shape in the bed.

‘Evan?’ I say. ‘What’s happening here?’

It looks like he is sleeping, the brown curls of hair against the pillow, the points of his bony frame shaping the peaks of the blanket. Then I realise he is moving, but not with normal breathing: more of a shivering. I reach out for his shoulder pulling gently, but he doesn’t turn towards me.

‘Evan?’

‘Go away,’ he mutters, with tears in his voice.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

He lets me pull him, gently turning him. In the glow of the streetlight coming through the curtains I can see the shine on his cheeks. I feel anxious more than sad. He’s never like this; something has gotten to him.

‘Evan, tell me what’s wrong?’

‘I can’t,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t matter what it is, Evan, I can help you.’ I imagine all the things that could have gone wrong. My boy is too delicate to have done anything that would warrant this sort of response, too young to join a gang, or have a pregnant girlfriend. But everything is so much bigger in your head at that age. ‘Evan, you’re going to tell me why you are upset, and we are going to work it out together.’

‘It’s my fault,’ he says.

‘What’s your fault?’

‘The fire.’ The tears are clearing now, but his voice still trembles.

‘Nonsense. Someone pitched a bottle through our window. How is it your fault?’

‘It was Raze.’