His voice is the same—the tone, the manner—no different. But something doesn’t fit. Then I see. Despite the rain, he’s wearing his sunglasses, a pair of aviators he bought in Cornwall on a Family Moon holiday (back when Family Moon was still an actual thing). He reclines in his seat and gazes up at me in a way that seems unfocused. “Let me look at your face,” he says. I take a dazed step towards him and he reaches out his hand and his fingers find my chin. “Holding up OK?”

The buzzing in my ears begins again.

We’ve been here already.

My teeth ache. My head hurts.

The Old Man strokes my cheek. His fingers travel onward, finding and feeling out the contours of my mouth, my nose, my eyebrows, my cheekbones, as if he’s familiarising himself with the topography of my face—a face he’s always known.

“Something’s different,” he says, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

Wrong? What isn’t wrong?

I get a sick feeling in my stomach and pull back. When did it begin, the day’s weirdness? With dark-eyes. Malik, he said his name was. He was the start of it all.

“Ana?”

“I’m fine,” I say.

“How’s your mother?” the Old Man says. “Still a complete nightmare?”

Stop it. Stop this. We’ve had this conversation.

I take a deep breath, let it out. I feel exhausted.

The Old Man grabs my hand in his. “What’s up with you, darling?”

“On the Tube,” I say, voice trembling. “I…something happened.”

“On the Tube?” he says. He squeezes my hand and I realise his skin feels different, clammier than normal. Softer.

“Bea,” I say. “We…I was with her and she…she’s…”

“Ana, what are you talking about? Who’s Bea?”

That hits hard. I snatch back my hand, a maelstrom of thoughts whirling in my head.

Who’s Bea?

I get the sudden feeling Bea was never with me, that we never met on the Tube. That I imagined it all. The boy. The floating. The creature. It never happened. None of it.

“Ana?”

“N-nothing,” I stammer. “I just…nothing. Forget it.”

“You sure you’re OK, Ana?”

“I’m…it’s just…I’m not feeling great.”

“Oh, sweetheart. You should get some rest.”

“What did you do to the door?” I whisper, unable to say anything else.

“The door?”

“The front door. Why’s it a different colour?” My voice sounds edgy. I’m struggling to breathe, gripping the arm of the garden chair, white-knuckled.

The Old Man turns his head towards the interior of the house and frowns. “Ana,” he says. “What are you talking about? What’s gotten into you?”

That’s when I recognise the animal smell.

Wet dog.