It’s no longer raining when we step outside and I suddenly wonder just how long I was out. A few hours, longer? The darkness is still sucking at my back.

‘I need to go to a coffeeshop.’

‘Rykel, you were found sprawled on the grass in Amsterdamse Bos mumbling incoherently, jumping at shadows. You tried to fight off two of the officers and they had to restrain you, which is why you ended up in that cell. I really think you need to lay off.’

‘You don’t understand.’

‘You’re right, I don’t.’

She’s a bit ahead of me now, something righteous in her bearing. I can hardly blame her. I was the same once. Only what I’ve gone through has changed me. I’m no longer the same person I was even six months ago. And something I realized during that period when I started to finally get better is that, really, it’s not the world – it’s how you look at it. Only looking at it differently is not always so easy on its own. Sometimes you need help.

‘You’re not hearing me. I need it right now or it’ll happen again.’

‘What you need is to take a real hard look at yourself,’ she says, spinning round, her eyes flashing. ‘You’re standing in the street, with no shoes on, telling me you need a psychoactive drug.’

When I look down I discover she’s right. Okay. I get that it’s not ideal, but neither’s my life right now. And really, if she had a headache I’m sure she’d pop a pill. What’s the difference?

‘It won’t take long.’

In the end she actually waits outside Barney’s Lounge on Reguliersgracht whilst I have to deal with a bud-tender who harbours a bottomless pit of contempt for humanity before I’m finally hitting a dab rig. I don’t normally like dabs – highly concentrated cannabis extracts are not the same as vaporizing flower – but in this case I need the quickest way to get the stuff into my system. Afterwards, as the anxiety starts to melt, the sucking darkness finally receding, she takes me to a store and buys me a new pair of shoes. I catch her looking at me in a mirror as I lace them up.

I’m pretty sure the look is one of pity.