I didn’t know how long it had been. I was holding a cigarette, one of Nic’s, but it had turned into a column of ash. When I shifted at the sound of Tom’s voice, it fell onto my thigh and rolled, intact, onto the concrete. I had a postcard on my lap. New York. I didn’t know why I’d taken it out of my bag, or when. I pulled my hand over it to hide the photograph.

‘You okay?’

I nodded. ‘Just tired.’ I was. I was so tired.

I’m so tired.

I was going to send it to Lina.

Lina. The wedding. I couldn’t go to the wedding. There was no way. I couldn’t do anything. Could barely move.

‘I’ve never been out here,’ he said, trying to keep his voice light. Trying so hard. ‘Is this where you all come to get away from us?’

I inhaled. My chest, ribs, stomach hurt, like I’d just run a marathon.

‘I waited for you to come back but Nic thought I should check on you.’ He came closer, bent down in front of me, one knee on the filthy ground. ‘It’s like getting VIP access. I even got to see the staffroom.’

Trying so hard. And I couldn’t move, couldn’t say anything.

He exhaled, went to reach for me, my hand, stopped himself. ‘How are you feeling?’

It was genuine, but polite, careful. Doctorly. I nearly laughed, only I couldn’t. A wave of sadness washed over me. Defeat.

I’m sick and nobody will help me.

Nobody can help me. Nobody could help Jenny.

‘You can’t fix me, Tom,’ I said, my voice straining. ‘I know you think you can but I don’t have a broken leg or a fucking virus or whatever. You can’t fix me.’

‘I know.’ He sounded sad, tired. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You can’t fix me,’ I went on, like he hadn’t spoken. Frannie had a husband. A family. And it hadn’t fixed anything. I wondered who’d found her. I wondered where she’d been. How close she’d come.

I wondered who’d find me.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

‘I’m going to die.’ It sounded different, even to me, something I’d known for years but suddenly bigger. Scarier. ‘I’m going to die, Tom.’

‘Don’t, Cait.’

I dropped my head, too tired to hold it up anymore.

You’re too much.

I had to be careful. I thought I was being careful but I wasn’t. Not careful enough.

‘I can’t do this,’ I said, before I could stop myself.

I had to be more careful.

‘What?’ Small. Scared.

I squeezed my eyes closed so I wouldn’t accidentally look at him. Focused. ‘This. You. Me. Us. I can’t.’ I swallowed. ‘It’s not going to work.’

I heard him inhale sharply. ‘Cait—’