I join the back of the queue, my face burning with embarrassment. Being blind in one eye messes with your depth perception. I can’t work out distances; when I focus on something in the foreground it makes stuff in the distance go blurry. It wasn’t a problem at home because I know where everything is, but now … if I can’t even make it across the airport without falling over, how am I going to make it to Norway?

I hold the silver charm around my neck and tell myself to get it together. I’ve done the journey with Mum lots of times, and I had no problem travelling around London by myself before the accident. I just need to focus.

There are two families ahead of me; if they’re quick maybe I can still make my flight. I rummage through my bag and pull out my printed e-ticket and ferry pass to Skjebne. You pronounce it Sheb-na – heavy on the Shh, which is kind of fitting, as it turns out. We used to spend every summer there – Dad too before he left us – but since the accident Mum refuses to talk about the island or Mormor, my grandma.

‘Next customer, please.’

I step forward and lay my passport and e-ticket on the desk.

‘Where are you travelling to today, miss?’

‘Bodø. Well, Skjebne, actually. But I have to change flights at Oslo and then get the ferry from Bodø. And it’s Martha Hopkins. My name, that is.’ My face reddens. I sound like such an idiot.

As I put my rucksack on the scales, the woman behind the desk leans over and whispers to her colleague before turning back to me. I stare at my feet, convinced she can tell I’m a runaway just by looking at me.

‘Can you remove your sunglasses, please?’

My voice is as shaky as my legs. ‘Why? Is there a problem?’

‘I need to verify you’re the person shown in the passport photo.’ She glances behind me. ‘Travelling alone? No parent or guardian?’

‘No, but I’m seventeen and your website said –’

‘The picture in this passport shows a much younger child.’

I bite my thumbnail as she slides my passport across the desk, open at the page with my photo, as if I don’t already know what it looks like. I glance at the image of the pale-faced girl with long blonde hair and quickly look away. I hate seeing pictures of me from before.

‘I’ve always been small for my age,’ I blurt, then instantly feel stupid.

She studies the photo and I clutch my necklace. Most of the jewellery I made after the accident was rubbish, yet this piece came out perfectly. The feel of its cool edges always calms me. I love metal; it tells me nothing.

I take a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m actually late. So if you could –’

‘Take off your glasses, miss.’