Peter stood over the bag. He could shake out its contents. He could scramble on hands and knees for the thing that was keeping them apart and put an end to this right now. He didn’t know what he’d be looking for, but it was likely to be small. Small things to hide big secrets. A slip of paper. A note. Peter crouched down, hungry to tear the bag apart. But it was no good. Whatever it was, that word was stronger than he was. And it would win. He’d merely drag it out by the scruff of its neck and a whole other life, the life Cooper lived parallel to the one they shared, would look up at him grinning and quietly tell him to go away.

The microwave pinged. Peter didn’t even recall turning it on, and yet there it was. His porridge. He pulled the bedroom door to, just so Cooper’s stuff would stop looking at him and quietly made his way back into the front room. When the clock finally reached nine, the time listed in the welcome pack that the supermarket opened, the porridge had hardened into cold sludge. Peter pushed it aside and quietly made his way out into the snow.