She tries to ignore it as she pulls the clothes from the washing machine. Martin believed the story about how it was broken though his clothes were spinning around at the time.

She unlocks the glass doors to the little balcony and hangs the clothes on the rack, careful not to tread on Blake’s tomato plants. The air is very warm. Up here you could be on the balcony of a hotel or the prow of some great ship. Today has been perfect, another missed perfect day. The rim of the sun is sinking fast. A plane sweeps by, ripping the peace; the red taillights puncture the blue. A point of scarlet flares in the parking lot below like an echo or a warning. A man is smoking down there; she can’t see his face but he might have clocked her, outlined against the window. Grace steps back inside, shuts the doors, then lowers the blinds. Two or three hours of peaceful writing time stretch ahead, time she’d never normally have, though she’s had to sacrifice the chance to be with everyone and she’d wanted that too. She pulls her notebook from its hiding place, opens it at the marked page, and starts to write, then pauses. Her eyes flick to the paragraph above, she crosses out a line, writes another, changes the last word, looks up for inspiration. Her gaze meets Blake’s inhaler again, his fingerprints in chocolate outlined on the blue plastic. He doesn’t need it often but he just might be wheezing tonight. Charley said there’d be a bonfire, the smoke could set him off. Martin might not notice until it’s too late. She puts her pencil down, slowly closes her notebook, and climbs on the stool to slide it back on the shelf.

She strips out of her jeans and finds the red beach dress scrunched at the back of a drawer, something in nylon, bought online for a weekend at a campsite in Devon last year but never worn. She snaps off the label and slips it on, then she shoves her feet into Charley’s jeweled flip-flops and slings her bag over her shoulder. She takes out a few coins from the candy tin; she’ll buy a present for the little boy on the way, Martin won’t have remembered. At the moment of stepping outside the block of flats, she realizes her door keys, the ones with a little red tab, aren’t on the main key ring, which has opened up a little. They must have slipped off in the flat. Martin will have his keys; it doesn’t matter—but a moment later she realizes it does. The boy with the green-soled sneakers has appeared from the shadows and is standing in front of her, blocking her way; without keys she can’t escape back into safety. He steps nearer, so near she can see the yellow of pustules on his cheek and the pitted scars of older ones, white powder clogging the hairs of a nostril. There is a low-pitched humming noise in her head, like a warning, but it’s too late. In her hurry, she forgot the rules. The boy chucks his cigarette down in a violent motion; that was the red light in the parking lot. He must have been waiting for her since Martin left.