Liam’s own hands are shaking so hard that the matches keep snapping when he strikes them. He curses under his breath, but keeps going and finally, on the fifth try, he manages to light one. He holds it to a white firelighter block, and it catches with a startling whoosh. I stare at the flame like it’s a magical element and I have to resist the urge to reach for it and bring it near to me, to cradle it in my frozen hands. Liam shoves it into the stove. The damp wood he’s piled inside though merely fizzles and hisses, letting off steam but not igniting. I stare helplessly at the firelighter’s flickering flame as it starts to burn itself out.

‘Damn,’ Liam says, rubbing his hands together to spark feeling back into them. The tips of his fingers are blue. I look down at my own hands: they’re wrinkled and white, my fingertips and nails tinged the same blue as Liam’s.

Once again Liam drags himself to his feet and disappears into the kitchen. I don’t have the energy to follow. I can only lie staring at the wood stove as the weak flame extinguishes. My eyes start to flutter closed. I hear the muffled sound of the back door banging shut and wonder briefly where Liam has gone, but my thoughts are disjointed and fuzzy. I’m starting to drift off.

A loud bang startles me and my eyes fly open. It sounds like an axe smashing into wood. What’s happening? There’s another crack, then another, and then a moment later Liam comes through into the living room carrying splintered pieces of varnished wood. It takes me a moment to figure out that he must have smashed up one of the kitchen chairs for fuel.

He kneels in front of the stove and shoves the pieces in, lights another firelighter and shuts the door on it as the wood catches and roars to life.

I crawl an inch closer to the flames, so that my hand is almost touching the cast iron, letting my face bathe in the light and the extraordinary heat. Drowsiness drops over me like a blackout curtain, but there’s a frantic tugging at my jeans keeping me from succumbing to the blissful lure of sleep. I grumble something unintelligible, not understanding what’s happening, but the tugging doesn’t let up.

‘Get them off,’ I make out Liam saying. ‘You need to get out of your clothes. They’re wet.’