It was quiet, even for a Wednesday, so I had no excuse. I’d already stocked the bar and started cleaning the coffee machine, but everything felt harder than it should. Nic had replaced the usual bluesy instrumentals with French electronica and it seemed to echo off the timber, off-beat. He didn’t seem to care. I looked at him, polishing glasses.

‘You okay?’

‘’Course.’

He studied me. ‘Is Tom coming in tonight?’

I tried to answer but I couldn’t. Tried to plaster on a smile and make a joke, but the cracks ran too deep and nothing seemed funny.

It was hot. Too hot.

He held a glass up in front of the light, squinted, then put it back into the tray with the others. It crashed into them, too loud, and the sound made me jump. So loud. All I could hear. Nic didn’t seem to notice, to care.

Too hot, and then cold. A prickle of … something … up my spine. A tightening in my chest. My heart skipped a beat and took the next one twice as hard.

‘You sure you’re okay, Caitie?’ He was looking at me again. ‘You look terrible.’

I tried to answer but I couldn’t. My eyes were wet, hot. There was something around my throat. Hands. Squeezing. Ice-cold. Sweat dripping along my hairline.

Dying.

Dying. This was what dying felt like. Multiple organ failure. Heart attack. Stroke. Pulmonary embolism.

Dying.

‘Cait?’

He had his hand on my arm but I could barely feel it. Dread. Dead. Dread.

I tried to move. To breathe. To do anything.

I couldn’t feel my face.

‘Here, have some water.’ Nic was holding a glass in front of me and I reached for it, felt the cool glass with my fingertips. ‘Got it?’

I nodded, couldn’t speak. He let go.

I didn’t have it, and it crashed to the floor. Crashed. So loud. Not loud enough. ‘Shit,’ he said, somewhere far, far away. He was under water. Or I was. Drowning. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll clean it up. You—’

‘Can I have a cigarette?’ I managed. I had to get out of there. Out from under the light fixtures, away from zappy power points and sharp knives. I had to. Before … ‘Please?’

When our eyes met his were huge, eyebrows drawn together, full of questions. ‘Of course.’

I looked away. Straightened. My spine hurt too. Meningitis. Straightened and walked past him, not hearing what he said next, not hearing anything except a roaring between my ears and, as I made it out of the dining room, the sound of the front door opening and closing.

‘Cait.’