She checked the time of the message – it had been sent just over two hours ago. Kate dialled Grace’s number – but it went straight to voicemail.

‘Hi, Grace, it’s me, Kate. I’m so sorry to get your news. I—’ She paused, not knowing what to say. ‘If I can do anything, anything at all, let me know.’

She hung up, still shaken. Everything Arnie had been through, and now this. It wasn’t fair. Angry tears sprang to her eyes. He was just a child, six years old for God’s sake, and other people, a chain of faceless politicians, corporations, scientists, had decided his fate for him.

She put her phone back in her pocket and pinched the bridge of her nose. She shouldn’t cry on the shop floor. She quickly glanced around in case any customers were heading her way and saw a mother pushing her trolley down the aisle across from her desk, her young son sitting in the child’s seat. He was clutching a brightly coloured child’s watering can, something the shop had on as a promotion. The mother was browsing the garden products and Kate saw her pick up a bottle of weedkiller and read the front label with its reassuring claims of ‘quick action’ and ‘targets roots’, and how it would make your garden so beautiful, so perfect by killing the weeds. The mother placed a bottle in her trolley.

Kate stepped from behind the help desk and walked over to the woman. ‘Excuse me?’ she said as she plucked the bottle of weedkiller from the trolley and put it back on the shelf. ‘I really wouldn’t recommend this stuff.’

The woman looked bemused. ‘But I need it,’ she said and placed it back in again.

‘No, honestly, you don’t,’ said Kate, putting the bottle back, more firmly this time.

‘Yes, I do,’ said the woman, plonking the bottle back in.

‘Maybe you don’t understand. This stuff kills people.’ Kate turned the bottle over, indicating the back label. ‘Glyphosate. There are numerous reports about it being carcinogenic to humans. I just worry . . . it’s not great to chuck it all over the garden when you have little kids outside.’

The young boy, who’d been getting more alarmed at Kate’s behaviour, began to cry. His mother picked him up, along with her bag, and started to walk away. ‘You’re bonkers,’ she said. Kate didn’t even watch her go. She ran her arms along the shelves, sweeping bottles of weedkiller off the shelf and into the woman’s abandoned trolley with a crash.

‘Kate?’ said a smooth, corporate voice in her ear. She ignored it.

‘Don’t make me have to call security.’ It was Martin, her manager. She stopped, out of breath.

‘Shall we have a little chat?’ said Martin.

‘You can’t let your personal issues affect your work,’ said Martin in his ‘calm voice’, the one she suspected he learned on his ‘staff management and morale’ courses. She looked at him. He was only in his twenties, but already heading towards being overweight, and he liked to gel his thinning hair, which actually made it look even thinner. He was sitting on a low chair next to hers with an air of self-importance about him, of stoically bearing the extra responsibilities management brought.