I looked back at her face, and I watched her eyes close, her breathing start to regulate. I started to relax the rubbing, and she groaned and flexed her foot again.

Not so fast, Daddy Rob.

I let out a deep sigh, and carried on rubbing my daughter’s foot. I remember feeling pretty pissed off. Resentful of Luke’s absence and just achingly tired. Thinking about the school run in the morning and having to get to the office afterwards. Picked a bad day to give up coffee, I thought, smiling to myself in the dark. Staring at the glowing green digits of the clock without really looking. Listening to the muffled rattling of the rain against the double glazing.

How long have I been doing this?

3:52 became 3:53. I gradually reduced the pressure on my daughter’s foot, watching her face for any sign of stirring.

Daylight flooded the room.

My head snapped round to the window, expecting to see a helicopter or something. Instead, I saw a white light on the horizon, so bright it hurt my eyes.

It was the end of the world.

I felt my stomach drop, a bitter taste in the back of my throat. I noticed the clock had gone out.

“Daddy Rob…”

I flung myself onto the bed, covering her body with mine. She started to squeal with shock, but her cry was obliterated by the sound of breaking glass as the window shattered. I felt the whole room under us lurch forward, as if pushed by a giant. There was a blast of intense heat across the back of my bare legs. I yelled out, and tried to tuck them under her duvet. She’d stopped screaming, and I could feel her hot, damp breath on my chest, soaking through my T-shirt. She was panting, but not struggling. Too scared to, maybe.

The heatwave passed quickly, and the light slowly faded. I held my daughter tight and stroked her hair, whispering to her.

“It’s okay, baby girl, it’s okay, it’ll all be over in a minute…”

As the intense brightness faded, the room fell into pitch darkness. The light from the bathroom was out. So were the streetlights outside the window.

“Daddy’s got you, you’re okay.”

All was black.

2

So I’m Robert. Rob Andrews. And I’m dead.

Likely, I’ve been dead for some time, in fact. If someone is reading this, it’s going to be decades from now.

Now.

Now is me sitting here, typing this. As I type, my daughter is lying next to me, in my bed. The empty windows are covered by the mattress from the spare room, but it’s still cool, so Charley is wrapped up, blankets and the duvet, oblivious to the soft clacking of the keyboard.