Roxy pours herself a drink of something brown from a glass bottle that thuds when it hits the wooden table top. ‘We’ve been chatting while you napped. Ellis says you’re a writer.’ She’s speaking oddly – a strange, inhuman inflection, statements that sound like questions, the stress on unusual words.

I glance at Ellis. Her statement feels like an accusation. ‘I … write about people who’ve gone missing.’

‘A journalist?’

‘Yes. Something like that.’

Roxy scoffs, then repeats, ‘Something like that.’ Mocking me in a pitiful little voice, high-pitched and whiny. ‘Something like that.’

I’m not prepared for how seemingly unhinged she is, and honestly, I’m not sure if I’ve recovered – or will ever recover – from my night in the woods. Suddenly I’m feeling out of my depth and very afraid. ‘It’s a … podcast. I don’t mean to patronize you, but do you know what that –’

‘Yes. Generally. A broadcast. Online. Right? Yes? Right?’ She won’t stop asking until I nod. ‘How many people listen?’ I notice now a twitch, intermittently jolting across the right side of her face.

‘About fifty thousand.’

If she thinks this is a lot, like I expect her to, then she doesn’t show it. Instead she acts like she doesn’t even hear me, shuffling the items on the coffee table – her drink, a notepad, a walkie talkie – in front of us in a manic, territorial way, the scrape of it searing temples. When she’s finished, all the items are sitting in the exact same position as when she’d begun. ‘And you had planned to write about me.’

‘Yes. I’m sure you can imagine … that people found your disappearance strange.’

‘My imagination is fine, thank you. Does your programme have a title?’

‘How to Disappear.’

She reels back, an ill-sounding hack of a laugh spewing from her. ‘Gosh. A bit schlocky, isn’t it? How to Disappear? Do you think these people who have gone missing strategized their departures?’

‘You did.’

Roxy smiles at me, horribly.

Across the room, there’s a crackly voice from one of the radios: ‘Holy shit, that Booker?’

Booker breathes in sharply, then cackles like a madman. ‘Yes! Hello! You copy?’

‘Clear as fucking day. We gotta get you out of there.’

‘I have the kids with me. Mona Perry and Ellis O’Hare. They’re safe but pretty beat up – they’re gonna need attention. Mona especially.’

I prickle. Everything does hurt, but maybe it’s worse than I’ve even had the time to inspect.

‘You all right?’ the radio voice asks.

‘I’ve never felt better, to tell you the truth.’

‘Where in the hell are you?’

‘I’ve got the coordinates.’ He sends them by typing something into a panel, and I don’t understand how any of it works, I’m just thrilled that it does.