With the steel barrier to her left and the long lorry to her right, the car coming too close from behind and forcing her too close to the car in front, she felt the pressure building and knew it would not subside. The strap seemed to be pulling tighter around her every second, choking off the deep breaths she tried to take. Pushed in on every side, she scrabbled for the button to wind down the window, but she couldn’t find it, and the car smelled of hot carpet, the crackle of kindling, bunched newspaper and firelighters, and then her hand alighted on her belt buckle, on the one restraint she could undo, unclipping it just before she blacked out and hit the car in front.

Wherever Amy has gone to, this is one of the few things that she and I can agree upon.

*

The party is about to end but it used to be such fun. We all loved each other. We were all interchangeable, in the best way. We woke up in each other’s arms and stumbled out to buy breakfast, past groups of people looking just like us, right down to the same sunglasses and unisex jeans. Someone would always know someone else intimately and we would all embrace each other, breathing in the sweet smell on our necks, something sharp and carnal.

Now I wonder if this city’s friendliness is the most dangerous thing about it. There is always someone to inspire new hope in you. There is always a saviour to find.

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