“What do you mean ‘pretend’?”

The curt tone to her voice makes me look up. “You don’t believe it, do you? That Isis is actually psychic?” I know Daisy and Leanne both denied telling Isis about Tommy, but someone must have. “I think it’s really cruel, giving you false hope that Tommy’s watching over you, and—”

“Stop.” She stands up awkwardly, cradling her hurt hand to her chest. All the colour has drained from her face. “I’m not talking about this any more.”

“I’m sorry, Al.” I reach for her. “I didn’t mean … please … sit back down. Let me look at your hand.”

“No.” She shakes me off, stepping past me. “Leave me alone.”

“Al, wait!” I hurry after her as she sprints out of the dorm and across the wooden walkway to the main building, but the toe of my flip-flop catches on something and I hit the ground with a thump. If Al heard me fall, she doesn’t turn back.

“Shit.” I sit up gingerly and peel back my trouser leg. My knee is bleeding.

“You okay?” There’s a hand at my elbow. I vaguely recognise the small, dark-haired woman at my side, a mop and bucket lying discarded beside her. She’s called Sally; she’s one of the Ekanta Yatra community members.

Sally wipes her hands on her pale blue apron, crouches down and takes hold of my calf between both her palms, gently tugging it towards her. “Shout if it hurts.”

She twists my leg clockwise, then anti-clockwise, revolves my ankle around and then asks me to bend and straighten my knee as she checks to see if I’ve broken any bones. Finally she nods.

“It’s not broken but it’ll need a clean. Can you walk?” She stands up and offers me an arm, clutching the mop and bucket with her free hand. “There’s a first-aid tin in the kitchen. You can lean on me, if you like.”

As Sally helps me along the walkway and through the hallway to the kitchen, we pass a man and a woman on their knees, sweeping up the devastation Al created after she ran out of Isaac’s session. Broken glass and shards of pottery clink together as they brush the mess into their pans. Neither of them looks up as we walk past and into the kitchen.

“Here.” Sally pulls a rickety wooden chair out from under the heavy kitchen table and I lower myself down onto it. A thin streak of blood winds its way down my calf to my foot.

She goes into the pantry and returns with a small plastic tub. She places it on the table then roots through it for some cotton wool and a crusty-lidded bottle of TCP.