I didn’t like her voice.

‘I don’t know.’ I curled inwards, flexed my toes. Everything hurt, stiff and sore, but nothing felt broken, not all the way. ‘Okay. I think.’

She nodded, as though confirming something.

I wrapped the blanket tighter around myself, trying to get warm. It was thick and dry but I realised the sheet under me was damp, icy cold. I shifted.

‘Sorry,’ Lina said. ‘It’s hard to change the sheets when someone’s unconscious on them.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s really not.’

I sat up. My brain rattled against my skull in protest, but only for a second. Even my stomach seemed to cope, although I felt a dull ache through my middle as I tried to stay upright.

‘How is any part of this in any way okay?’

She wasn’t asking me. Her voice was small, worn down to a dull sadness. I slid off the mattress onto the floor. Mirroring her.

‘Leen—’

‘Damn it, Caitlin,’ she whispered. ‘Goddamn it.’

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

She caught her breath, trying to keep herself from crying.

‘I came home and I got the mail and I was happy. I saw Central Park and I thought …’ Her voice broke. ‘I was so happy.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why, Cait?’

I closed my eyes, dropped my head onto my knees. I wanted to tell her I hadn’t meant it, or that I’d been drunk or it was a joke or any number of things, but none of them were true.

‘Do you hate me that much?’ I heard her shift. ‘Still? After everything? After all that’s happened?’

I frowned, confused.

‘I’m sorry, Cait.’ It was so tired, like she’d said it a thousand times and it had lost all meaning. ‘I’m sorry my mum was sick and my dad was an arsehole and you had to look after me. But do you really hate me that much?’

I turned so I could see her, elbows on her knees, head tipped back, staring at the ceiling.

‘I don’t hate you.’ My voice was so small.

She ignored me. ‘I never asked you to, you know?’ She closed her eyes, remembering, steadying herself. ‘Or maybe I did. I don’t know. I’m sorry.’

‘No, Leen.’ I had wanted to help her, look after her. Take care of her.

She hissed inwards, like she was in pain. It pierced my ribs and I had to turn away. ‘How could you do that? On a postcard of New York, of all places?’

‘Leen.’ I’d never seen her like this. Never heard her. ‘I don’t—’

‘You are supposed to be my best friend, Caitlin.’ Her voice came up. ‘Why couldn’t you just tell me? Why couldn’t you just talk to me instead of all … this? Fucking hell, Cait. Fuck.’

Footsteps. Shoes scraping timber.

‘You promised me. You promised!’