I am in the room this time, my feet on the bare floorboards of the bedroom. No longer on the worn carpet of the landing. The wood beneath my feet is warmer than I expected, and I feel a prickle of heat spark through my body. Too hot now, the faded grey linen I wear feels too tight around my neck, a noose poised and ready to tighten. I run a finger around the collar, pull my sleeves up. Sweat beads on my forehead and I have that overwhelming sensation again that I might be sick. I stop, wait, breathing steadily until it passes. I can’t throw up. That wouldn’t do, not now. Ahead of me, she lies huddled in the duvet, a dark head stark against the white pillowcase. A figure I know so well. A cup of water lies on the floor beside the bed, empty, on its side. A few drops of water have collected in a tiny puddle beneath the lip of the cup and my tongue flickers out and runs along my top lip, collecting the salt that collects above it. Thirsty, my throat is dry and scratchy, air burning as I draw it deep into my lungs. She shifts in the bed, emitting a small sigh, dislodging the blue, frayed blanket that lies across the end of the bed and I pause, afraid to move a muscle. Settling, her tiny frame is still again, the room silent once more. I am steady now, my mouth dry but my head clear. I am ready. Moonlight is the only light in the room, a small, cold puddle that leaks in from the landing. It’s not enough to see by properly, and I raise a hand as if about to grope for the light switch before I let it drop. I don’t need light. It’s better in the darkness. It will be easier in the dark. In the dark, they won’t see me coming.