Even though it’s the middle of the day, there are still quite a few people on the platform and they’re all staring at me but not in the good way, more in a what-is-wrong-with-her way. I walk right to the end and find a bench, sitting with my head in my hands.

If Samuel Pulpitt isn’t Doctor Calm, that means someone else is. There are probably hundreds or thousands or tens of thousands of men out there who hate girls and want to hurt them and the world keeps going around and nothing changes. And what can we do? Make a photo, chase a suspect, read the news.

My face is either freezing cold or boiling hot—I can’t tell anymore.

I’m so so tired and term is about to start on Monday and I’ll have to face everyone and put my game face on and it’s as if I haven’t had a holiday at all. Yin will have slipped from everyone’s minds a little bit more, and by the time exams and the formal come around she will have slipped completely, and by the time we’re in Year Twelve and going on to live full and interesting lives she’ll be a puff of dust in the distance, still only sixteen years old.

The tracks hum and I shuffle to the edge of the platform as the train arrives, the robot voice chanting over the PA and then the train comes in fast and loud, squealing metal on metal.

There’s a moment of danger when the train pushes hot dragon breath around me and I’m dizzy and it would be nothing to let myself fall forwards, off the platform and into space. All I have to do is take another step forward, then another. It would be that easy.

The lurching spreads all the way through me as the train streaks past in a rush of sound and wind. I haven’t moved, of course I haven’t, because I don’t want to move, I don’t want to fall, I want to live, I know that. I really want to live. Seconds feel like hours and I walk towards the nearest carriage door. All I can think is: I can’t go on like this.

On the train I find the quietest seat and read Chloe’s message.

Yeah. I talked to a cool artist. Thanks for inviting me.

She doesn’t apologise for leaving the opening without saying goodbye and quite frankly I don’t need her to, I just need her to keep replying to me. I don’t know if I’d describe Genital Gerard as ‘cool’ but maybe it’s an art thing. I read and reread her words, trying to discover more of their tone and mood, but they stay the same.