I read it again, and again, and every time it said the same thing and every time the same feeling crept up my spine and seized me around the throat. Guilt, fear, something else. Something worse.

I should have been excited, but it was too cold; the window wasn’t sealed properly and the wind sliced through the room like a knife. Underneath me, the sheets were ice. When I moved, a long time later, my joints cracked, ached.

I should have been happy, but there was no air, no space, no light.

Somewhere, a door slammed, a siren sounded, a motorbike roared down the street, so loud it shook the windowpanes and I felt it in my bones and I couldn’t move. I read the postcard again and again until my eyes felt hot and the words started swimming and swimming but not getting anywhere.

2 WEDNESDAY, APRIL

2

WEDNESDAY, APRIL

‘This Saturday?’ I asked, wedging the phone against my shoulder as I took stock of the contents of my work locker—three candy-coloured cans of spray deodorant, a rumple of black shirts, a pale pink bra that didn’t look like mine.

‘Yes. That is Jack’s birthday, Caitlin,’ my mum’s voice cracked into my ear, short and already disappointed by a response I hadn’t yet given her. A few folded-up pieces of newspaper—crosswords I’d collected to do on my break and then forgotten about. A tangle of sacked-out hair elastics.

‘I’m working Saturday,’ I said, pulling out an elastic and putting it on my wrist. Probably. Maybe not. Maybe dying. Maybe already dead. Half-a-dozen chocolate bar wrappers from all the times I forgot to eat breakfast before work. Rollie papers. Rollie papers. Rollie papers. I made a mental note that they were there for next time I ran out.

‘It’s your brother’s birthday. Can’t you take a day off?’

She was always doing that, like it was so simple. ‘It’s the busiest day of the week, Mum.’

‘What about brunch?’ she asked. ‘You don’t usually work mornings, do you?’

I picked up a shirt, sniffed. ‘No, but—’ Another. Shook out the least offensive one, inspecting it for stains. Some stale milk on the shoulder, but otherwise acceptable, I thought, pulling the phone away from my ear and lifting my t-shirt over my head.

Sawyer’s didn’t open until noon, but I didn’t want to go to brunch. I didn’t want the questions and the furrowed brows and awkward silences, and I really didn’t want to talk about Lina and the wedding and how exciting it was. Mum hadn’t mentioned it and I wondered suddenly if she knew, and if she knew I knew.

I should’ve been happy for Lina.