‘How terrifying,’ Frannie said, staring at her hands. ‘I’m so glad you’re okay.’

‘Thanks, Fran.’ Geoff smiled. ‘It was just such a wake-up call.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘I’m thinking of moving, to be honest. That place is a death trap.’

Geoff had moved three times in the past year, but every apartment tried to kill him—gas stove, wall-mounted dryer, loose balcony railing.

‘You know they reckon single steps are the worst? I did a safety course once—for work, not just for myself, but it was so educational—and they said single steps are deadly. Your brain doesn’t see them properly. And if you trip carrying a pair of scissors or a knife or even a glass and it breaks …’

Carlos winced at the thought.

‘I’m going to get some hazard tape, just for now. But I really think I need to move. It’s a shame, though; there aren’t many places in that price range with a garage.’

I sank back into my seat, hands deep in the pockets of my hoodie, feeling my eyes drift closed. Geoff talked for a little longer, and then he stopped and Louise started, but I could barely hear her.

I hadn’t slept, again. I’d been dying all day, all the day before. Without Sawyer’s I couldn’t seem to find a reason to get out of bed. I tried. Told myself I would do it on the hour, at eight, get up and shower and get dressed. Think about it until two minutes past, aim for eight fifteen, then miss that too. Stare at the ceiling until eight thirty-four. All morning, and most of the afternoon.

And I thought about dying, all the time. Mugged. Murdered. Car accident. Plane crash. Train derailment. Loose railing. Dodgy stove. All the time, all the things trying to kill me. I couldn’t stop thinking about them.

I was so tired. I’d had a couple of good nights, but I could feel it getting worse, and I didn’t even know what ‘it’ was.

Lina had called earlier to tell me about the dessert buffet she wanted and just before she hung up she asked what I was doing and I’d lied and said I was getting ready to meet friends. It had come out so easily I wondered if there was something wrong with me, something awful. A brain tumour, or maybe mad cow disease.

I balled my hands into fists and felt the air moving in and out of my lungs and listened.

Beryl had come down with a cold and she was worried it was pneumonia. Fiona, who was back but didn’t seem thrilled about it, asked her a series of questions, and I could tell from the sparkle in Beryl’s eyes that this was the highlight of her week.