He snarls but he is still too deep down for me to catch it. It is either, Now, now, now, or, No, no, no. I cannot be sure which.

We hunt through drawers and cupboards. All we find is dust. To keep us entertained, Lauren makes up songs. The best one is about a woodlouse. It is really, really good.

We are exhausted. I curl up on the floor under the couch. The cord lies in a pile beside me. It is pale yellow and delicate today.

Even if we found the knife I couldn’t use it on Ted. Apart from one brief flash, when Lauren took down the wall between us, I have not been able to control the hands, the head, the arms like a ted. I just feel like a cat. And there’s something else, too. I wish I didn’t but I still feel the old pull when I think of Ted. Love doesn’t die easily. It kicks and fights.

Lauren says, “You have to keep practicing, Olivia.”

I’m tired, I say. In my head I think, Practice is horrible and I hate it.

“I heard that,” she says. “How do you think we’re going to get out of here if you can’t use the body, you stupid cat?”

You are quite rude sometimes.

“At least I don’t go back on my promises, Olivia. You said you’d try.”

I row with unhappiness, because I know she’s right.

She sighs. “Let’s start again. Go to the bottom of the stairs. What can you see?”

I see the stairs, I say, tentative. (I always feel like my answers are wrong.) I see the carpet. The bannister, running up. At the top, I can just see the landing. And if I turn around I can see the front door, the umbrella stand, the door to the kitchen, into the living room a little …

“OK,” she says. “Enough. So, we’ll call this ‘Night-time.’ He can see what’s down here, but nothing more. Think about that. Imagine him here at the bottom of the stairs. Now, let’s go up top.”

On the last stair but one, before the landing, she pulls me up. “What do you see?”

I can see the bathroom door, I say, and Ted’s room and your room and the roof light …

“All the upstairs stuff, right?”

Yes.

“But can you see anything downstairs? The hall? The front door, the umbrella stand…”

No.

“So, let’s call this ‘Lauren.’ That’s what I can see. Got it?”

Not really, I say, but she’s not listening.

“Go down again.”

When I am precisely half way down the stairs, Lauren says, “Stop.” I am on the step where I like to nap. There are seven stairs below me and seven above. “Now what do you see?” Lauren asks.