Le Temps says my running style is superb but I don’t answer him. I’m running with my bag on my back because I’m scared if I put it down my phone will buzz and Le Temps will confiscate it like they do in school if you use your phone unauthorised in lessons. Eve’s the kind of girl who sends loads of text messages, especially as no one else can send texts in 1924. She’d do it for light amusement, darling. I hope she doesn’t, though. We agreed the phones are for emergency use only.

I notice Big Ben watching me running. I miss him. I hope he wants to run with me again tomorrow. But I don’t say anything to him, because if I say the wrong thing he’ll go from 0 to 10 and do something bad and get sent home. Ama’s also ignoring me. But when I’m running I forget how scared I am when people are angry with me. When I’m running, I get into the zone. My brain stops playing things over and over, like the film for Leap 2048 when Season is kneading the big lump of white dough. Although I play things I like, sometimes I want them to stop but my brain refuses and keeps playing scenes in a loop. When I’m running, I don’t even think about Bob Beamon. I don’t think at all. I just run.

I’m halfway round the field when we hear it, see it. The sky lights up like a blank screen. A few seconds later, a crack of thunder so loud I jerk mid-stride. Rain like needles. No wind at all. I keep on running. It’s actually OK running in the rain. When I was younger, I hated rain and refused to walk to school on wet days. Grandma had to phone the school to get them to collect me in a car. But now it’s OK. When it’s raining, it’s like running in the shower. You don’t get so hot and sweaty. If you want, you can lift your head up to the sky and drink it so you don’t get dehydrated. I hope future rain is safe to drink. I look up at the sky and open my mouth. A few black spots move slowly overhead.