Mum laughs. ‘I’ll eat your beetroot if you eat my chicken.’

‘It’s a deal!’

‘Did your dad tell you that the builders have finished the plastering? If we didn’t mind not showering and living in the dark, we could pretty much move in!’

I shake my head and keep eating. I’m not going to admit it, but the news makes me nervous.

‘We had a look at it today,’ says Mum, causing me to stop chewing mid-mouthful. But she seems oblivious to my shock because she keeps talking about how great the new house is, like it was a good thing that the old one burnt down. ‘I thought you might like to come and see it with me soon,’ she says, smiling at me.

‘And you need to pick a colour for your room, Clem,’ says Dad.

My new room is huge. It’s about half the size of this flat, and I have built-in cupboards and a bay window, where I can sit and read. I was excited about it. Dad consulted me about all the details, and I helped him with the plans. But now Mum’s seen it, before me. Dad obviously didn’t think that maybe I’d like to be with them when they walked through the house for the first time.

‘Black.’

Dad laughs. ‘You can’t have black walls.’

‘Why not?’

My dad always takes me seriously. He always listens and he never dismisses anything I say. So when he rolls his eyes playfully at Mum, like I’m being difficult, something in my chest cracks and I fling back my chair.

‘Toilet,’ I say before one of them can ask me if anything’s wrong.

In the bathroom I lock the door and turn on the tap. I catch the cool water in my hands and splash my face, hiding the evidence.

I see Mum’s toothbrush peeping out from the holder. It’s not all chewed like Dad’s and mine, so it doesn’t belong. I lift it out, noticing the lolly-purple plastic. It’s not the sort of colour I would have thought Mum would pick, and I wonder where it came from. Did the hospital give it to her? I’m so used to noticing clues that we lost our old lives, the little hints that everything we own is not ours. Like the teddy Bridge gave me because all mine burnt in the fire; the clothes I wear that are all brand new with no history. I replace the toothbrush and wipe my face with the towel, making a decision to be different with Mum.

I walk back out to the table and sit down. The wishbone is perched on the edge of my plate and I pick it up.

‘You have to let it dry,’ says Mum softly. ‘On the windowsill.’