‘Yeah. End of the summer, pr-probably. Mom wants to sell this p-place.’

Ellis emerges from the kitchen with a plate of what was promised and sets it on the coffee table.

Having not eaten anything hot in probably more than twenty-four hours, I can barely express my thanks before I’m being drawn towards the plate by some sort of foodstuff magnetism. The eggs are silky and warm and practically dissolve in my mouth; the salt of the bacon makes my jaw clench, my mouth watering to the point of caution. It’s hard to keep up the conversation while I eat, so mainly we don’t, me gorging myself while Ellis cleans up in the kitchen.

The kindness of the whole situation has stirred something in me. Neither of them had any reason to do any of this. The thought soon becomes uncomfortable; I banish it.

After I eat, Ellis shows me to my room. There’s a heavy pastoral quilt on the bed, a three-quarter-length set of windows, cracked, lace curtains floating in front of them. On the ceiling, a fan spinning too slowly to be generating any meaningful coolness. ‘This is great,’ I tell him. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’m gonna go back to help my mom, so just hang out here, sleep, whatever.’

I lower myself on to the bed, fighting the urge to burrow in immediately. ‘Is it OK that I’m here by myself?’

He doesn’t seem to understand. Blinks his round blue eyes. I want to live in his world, where everyone has the best of intentions. ‘I mean, I can stay if you want. No one’s gonna b-bother you or anything.’

‘No, don’t worry. Thanks for everything.’

After he leaves, I consider having an uninterrupted look around the hotel, but I’m unsure what kind of secrets there are to unearth in the Willowwood of all places; I decide the promise of time in a bed that isn’t mine is too good to pass up on. I fish my earphones from my backpack and jam them in – play ‘Kelly Green’ by Roxy Raines – and bury myself under the stiff sheets, and I think of her. Dancing, blonde hair cascading up and around her as if moved by an intelligent wind. I imagine her in the bed with me. If she wrote this at nineteen, or even earlier, imagine what she could have done with more time. Sometimes I think I’m in love with her.

I’m out like a light.

This damn place has got her wondering

If you threw her in the sea,

Would she wash up in that same sweet Kelly green?

HOW TO DISAPPEAR

Episode 21