‘It’s OK, really.’ I think of the boy from earlier. I like him. I like him and I don’t like anyone. Between breakfast, and his attentiveness and thorough lack of suspicion, there’s something about him that strikes me as truly kind. In any case, it’d be useful to know someone near my age who’s actually a resident and not just a Seasonal; maybe he’ll have some insight. ‘Is Ellis still around?’ I ask.

‘He’s back working the bike desk for me.’

‘Oh. Well, please tell him thanks again. He was really nice.’

Sylvia massages the back of her neck. ‘He’s a good boy. I’m sure you’ll see him around.’

I thank her again and go.

I trek along the side of the house, back to my car in the parking lot, and focus my modestly topped-up energy on getting to the dorm in one piece, the black ooze of sleep and strangeness still not entirely dissipated. The drive takes me, as Sylvia instructed, back on to the main road and down the sea-swaddled isthmus, the early afternoon sun beginning its downward arch on my left.

Seiburt House is easy enough to find, less easy on the eyes. It’s a protuberance of a building, square and brown and landlocked, no real view of the sea, and inside, the hallway is poorly lit and paved with a muddy carpet curling at the edges. There’s a modest kitchen and a shared bathroom on the ground floor. My room is on the first floor, concealed only by a particle-board door so cheap and worn I’m sure I could crush it in my hands. Opened and there’s a cell: carpet with mysterious stains and cracked white walls, and I’m not actually sure what state the room was in this morning if this is how it looks clean.

The main issue, however, is one of duplication: two beds. Two desks. I’ll have a room-mate. All my research and I couldn’t even bother to anticipate this?

Without any guarantee of privacy my plans of day-by-day documenting, recording are all but dashed. Of course I could record when they’re not here, but they still might show up unannounced, or ask questions about the equipment. A sinking resignation settles in me.

Each of the desks is adorned with a packet of papers – one addressed to me, the other to someone called Peyton Reed. My packet says I’m assigned to The Island Spot, a nearby diner with a thrillingly imaginative name, and I need to report there for my orientation at six thirty on Monday morning. My mercifully morning-person brain doesn’t flinch.