The Old Man levers himself down into a chair and reaches for the paper. “You’re not under house arrest, Ana. But suspension’s a big deal.” He snaps the paper open in his hands. Then his eyes find mine. “Tell me you’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be right back,” I tell him. “I promise.”

5

“MIND THE GAP!” a voice commands in a disaffected monotone, as if the gap might be a black and bottomless pit, but anyone falling through would raise no more than an eyebrow. This is The Usual—our place. The Tube. Circle Line to be exact. Bea claims there’s no better place on the planet to talk. Safe, surrounded by the indifference of strangers. Going around and around in a giant, endless loop.

We step into the carriage and plant ourselves on seats near the door, sipping frozen lattes. Here sit the usual suspects: an old woman opposite us with shopping bags at her feet, a load of tourists, a man in shorts and a T-shirt wet with perspiration. Countless others staring gloomily at their smartphones.

“So?” Bea says.

She’s wearing a fitted lime-green jumpsuit. On anyone else, it would look ridiculous. On her, it’s perfect. She seems delicate, otherworldly almost. I catch my reflection in the dark glass of the carriage window. Curly auburn hair. Cheeks, pale and shiny. I’m taller than Bea, my bony shoulders curve inward. But my go-to mustard-yellow hoodie looks OK, despite the heat. And my black skinny jeans too, torn at the knees and worn to silver, and my Stan Smith trainers, a month old.

“Moon. Tell me what happened, with your shrink.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Not a single thing worth repeating.”

“So, you’re saying your shrink doesn’t hold the key to universal understanding and consciousness? No shit, Sherlock. Mine neither.”

“She says it’s a process.”

“Bloody hell, Moon! I don’t see how the school gets away with this.”

“I know. Tell me about it.”

Bea slides her bum down in the seat and kicks her legs out across the aisle, drawing a hostile sigh from the woman opposite. “Know why shrinks are called shrinks?” Bea says, staring down the woman.

“Nope. But I get the feeling you’re about to tell me.”

“It’s from headshrinker,” Bea says, turning to me. “I looked it up.”

“Headshrinker.”

She grabs my arm at the elbow. “Which was taken from cannibal tribes in the Amazon that literally shrunk the heads of their victims.”

“Right. So…what does it mean in this context?”

Bea lets go of me. Shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe it’s all about shrinking our inflated egos. See, here’s the thing, Moon. I reckon they’re scared of us.”

“They’re not scared of us.”

“Yes they are.”

“Why?”