Jack turned and looked out of the window. Rokeby Close was deserted. He leaned out through the skylight as far as he could, but the angle was too tight and he couldn’t read the sign dangling from the cord. He’d just have to trust that it was the right way round. In the distance, he could hear a siren yowling.

His phone vibrated and he took it out: he had a Twitter notification. This was unusual. Jack didn’t really have many followers – 112, to be precise – although he sometimes helped out with the Green Genie Twitter profile. He’d find memes, or share their song of the week on a Wednesday afternoon, which always had to have a fruit or vegetable theme. (Jack sometimes wondered how long they could carry this joke on, but decided it would be impolitic to point it out to his colleagues.) He liked the social media manager, Deepti, who wore huge pink trainers and sequined leggings that made her look like a mermaid with legs. She had a dachshund, Cody, which she brought to the office. At Christmas she’d dressed Cody up as Santa, with a small hat, white-trimmed cape and little boots on all four paws.

Johnny had tagged him in a meme about Manchester City. Jack smiled, and then realized that the notification was in fact even more unusual because he didn’t have any signal. It appeared that his phone had finally managed to connect to the WiFi router in Ellen’s bedroom, two floors beneath. It was a weak connection – only a bar – but it had been enough for the tweet to come through.

He was about to tell the others about this development, when – with a frown of surprise – he found that he had a different idea entirely. For a few seconds, he ruminated as his idea grew legs, and then, still slightly surprised, Jack opened up the Compose Tweet box and stared at the blinking cursor.

He licked his lips, and with a decisive nod, he started typing.

@jackbarnes93

Sending out an SOS!!!! Stuck in an attic in Rokeby Close, Lewisham, south-east London. Door handle broke off and there’s flooding in the kitchen!!! With my housemates (and one of their dates!) #newcross #stuckintheattic

5. Ellen

With Jack by the window, it was difficult not to feel like a third wheel. While Ellen was pretending very hard not to notice, Alexa and Ben kept exchanging what were presumably meaningful glances and whispering to each other. Their hands were on the floor, fingers entangled. Ellen felt a little sullen. Perhaps she’d bring up the dead mouse again.

‘So –’ she started, not quite knowing where she was going.

Alexa and Ben both looked at her, quizzically.

She recovered. ‘Shall we put a bet on how long it takes to get rescued?’

Ben gave a lazy half-smile.

‘Loser has to pay for the kitchen to be refitted,’ Alexa muttered, darkly.

‘Too soon.’