‘We’re late,’ I say, looking towards the farm.

He shoves my hand downwards and jams my fingers into his trouser pocket. It’s hot in there, especially with Shane’s clammy fist over mine. I keep my fingers stiff, refusing to move. But he keeps pushing.

His lips are bunched together. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him with his mouth closed tight.

He keeps pushing. My lungs can’t seem to get enough air. It’s like every breath takes minutes to thaw in my chest. He keeps pushing. His brow is scored across his face now.

‘Let me go, Shane!’ I shout.

And he does. He lets go and I fall against him. His patchy stubble scrapes my forehead, and I get a face full of parka fur.

Then he presses both hands on my head and shoves me down, hard, so I fall to my knees. Gravel drives into my shins. The broken ice of the puddle soaks into my tights.

‘Sorry,’ he says, and puts his hand on my head, gently. He runs his big fingers through my hair, going up and down and round and round and round so I can’t see anything for all the hair he’s messed up over my face. As he’s groping my scalp, he moves my head gradually towards his groin, until the cool scratchiness of his fly zip is on my lip.

‘I’m not your girlfriend.’

He laughs. He keeps messing my hair up with his hands. ‘I’m not your girlfriend.’

His hands stop moving. Then he kneels in the puddle with me so we’re face to face, and he blinks his big wet eyes. His hair curls onto my cheek, he’s so close.

I look at him. And I see that he’s nothing like Dad.

‘But,’ he whispers. ‘But – ’

And nothing like me. But I have to end it.

‘I’m not your girlfriend, Shane.’

‘You are my girlfriend.’ He fixes me with the biology-diagram look. He sees all my veins, my blood and tissue. He examines me in close-up.

I shut my eyes and keep my voice even. ‘No. I’m not. I’m Rob’s girlfriend now.’

There’s a minute where I keep my eyes closed and he just breathes over me. Then I look at him and he falls back onto his haunches and bashes both fists into an icy puddle. Smash. Smash. Smash. Smash. Chips of ice fly over my hands and legs.

I get up and try to run to the farm. But I can’t. Instead, I keep slipping and yelping, slipping and yelping like a puppy on the ice.