Olivia was right. There was a cabinet in Dad’s desk containing handwritten documentation of every patient he’d ever had. And I knew that because I’d stumbled across it unlocked one day, and even though at that time I probably wasn’t even old enough to understand any of it, he’d made it known that was no place for me. ‘I can’t open those,’ I said. ‘It’s illegal, firstly. And he … I don’t think he would have wanted that.’

Olivia shrugged again. ‘Then I don’t know. I’m sorry someone’s being creepy about it – and, hey, I’m sorry I said anything. I won’t talk about it any more. But, like, maybe it’s not good to linger on that stuff.’

Little Olivia and Sydney, running circles in the cul-de-sac. If I had been suddenly transported back there, confronted with a younger me, would I have told her what she had to look forward to? Maybe she could prepare herself. Maybe she’d be more grateful for what she had. Maybe she’d look longer, speak softer, hold tighter. ‘Yeah, maybe.’

Tuesday. Tried to watch The Wicker Man. The original, obviously. The last scene had always been my favourite part, but now, it made me sort of sick. There was something too real about burning alive, looking on while the rest of the world danced.

Wednesday. Made some questionable Google searches. How to control a car remotely. How to cut brakes. Fast-acting poisons. How to fake a suicide.

It was those things that led me to videos of car crashes and the car crashes that led to the ToD.

The homepage was enough to warn anyone that they were somewhere they’d probably rather not be. It was a relic of the early internet: no layout, just a flashing button in the centre that scrolled like a theatre marquee, which read, ‘By entering you verify you’re over eighteen.’

I clicked. Hoped that no one would follow up that verification.

ToD stood for Time of Death and was essentially a lawless, mortality-based equivalent of YouTube. Mortality of all kinds. Building jumps and armed robberies and accidents and war footage. Car crashes. Mostly footage from security cameras that was almost definitely obtained illegally, some of it recorded on the phones of people who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time; the only rule was that someone in the video had to die.

It was addictive to say the least.

I avoided anything overtly gory, which wasn’t difficult since most of the videos only had about five pixels to work with. Couldn’t really watch anything with the sound on either.

Listen. It was sick. I knew it was sick.