Minnie walked over to the window and pressed a hand against the glass. The light was beginning to creep over the horizon. A high layer of cloud glowed a deep rusty pink, creating an aura of warmth over an otherwise cold, grey city. Skyscrapers stood silhouetted against the sky, their sharp straight lines in stark contrast to the softness of the clouds above.

‘Pretty impressive,’ Minnie said. ‘I can’t think when I was last awake for a sunrise.’

‘This is my favourite day of the year,’ he said. ‘A chance to start everything anew, don’t you think?’

‘Funny, it’s my least favourite day of the year,’ said Minnie. ‘I hate it.’

‘You can’t hate it, it’s my birthday. I won’t let you hate it,’ he said, his tired greyish-blue eyes temporarily revived, dancing with energy.

Minnie turned to look at him.

‘It’s my birthday too,’ she said.

‘It is not.’

‘I’m not joking. I promise you it is.’

He squinted at her, his chin retracting towards his neck, a look of scepticism. He turned back to the window just as the whole sky began to glow red.

‘Will you look at that?’ he said. ‘Glorious.’

Minnie glanced sideways at him as he looked out at the morning sky. She couldn’t pinpoint one feature that stood out, but there was a sort of synergy about his face; everything came together and just worked. He seemed so comfortable in his own skin, something Minnie had rarely experienced. He looked over and saw her staring at him and she quickly turned her attention back to the other view.

‘You know, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone with the same birthday as me,’ he said.

‘It’s a very elite club. I’ll make you a membership card.’ Minnie paused, nervous for some reason. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I know I should know your name since I’m at your party, but I came with Greg and he didn’t say. I guess I’ll need to know it if I’m going to make you a membership card.’

‘Sorry, I’m Quinn,’ he replied.

‘Quinn?’ Minnie’s mouth fell open. ‘Quinn Hamilton?’

‘Yes, Quinn Hamilton.’

‘Quinn Hamilton, born at Hampstead Hospital in 1990?’

‘Yes,’ said Quinn, his brow furrowing in confusion.

‘You,’ Minnie said, clenching her teeth. ‘You stole my name.’

New Year’s Eve 1989

Connie Cooper lay in the hospital bed looking over at the woman in the bed next to her. Specifically she was looking at the woman’s legs, which were long, glossy and as smooth as a Barbie doll’s. How was that even possible at this stage? Connie looked down at her own short, stumpy legs, covered in half an inch of black hair. She probably should have shaved her legs before coming in – well, at least the bits she could still reach.