The room lightens, the darkness that was crowding around my bed no longer there. A gasp of relief escapes me and I look over at Tom, remembering how he was always trying to get me to confide in him. Maybe he was right. Talking can help.

‘I told you. You should do it more often, Breeze Block.’

I sit up, shocked that he’s awake.

‘Tom?’

He murmurs something and turns over in bed.

‘Are you awake?’ I hiss. ‘Tom?’

I heard his voice clear as anything; was he listening to everything I said? It’s only then that it hits me: I didn’t speak out loud when I said that talking can help, so how did he know to answer me?

22

The next morning I come downstairs to find Tom in the kitchen, holding a saucepan in one hand and scratching his side with the other. He’s wearing the same ripped sweatshirt as before and his hair is messy and sticking up. I stand unseen in the doorway, watching as he peers in various cupboards and gyrates his hips while singing Beyoncé’s ‘Flawless’.

He repeats the chorus, proclaiming that he woke up like this, then lifts the pan and drinks, noticing me at the same time as dribbling milk down his front.

‘Morning, Shorty.’

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and I cautiously step into the room. I don’t know what I was expecting him to be like this morning – my life has detoured so far from normal that I don’t know what normal is any more – but it wasn’t this.

‘Do you want the good news or the bad?’ he asks.

I pull a face and he continues.

‘The good news is that we have everything we need to make pancakes.’

I risk a noncommittal, ‘OK.’

‘The bad news is that I have no idea how to make pancakes.’

‘Toast is fine.’

‘Cool.’

I pull out a chair and he hands me a plate stacked with toast, which he appears to have been scoffing in between raiding the cupboards. ‘Wait, I’m not done with that bit.’ He snatches back the top slice and shoves it in his mouth. After a few quick chews, he swallows then takes another swig from the pan.

‘You know there are mugs?’ I ask.

‘Saves on washing-up.’ He shrugs. ‘Want some? I can put yours in a mug if you like.’

‘Thanks.’

He takes a mug from the counter and dips it into the saucepan, then bangs it on the table, sloshing milk over the side. I smile, resisting the urge to comment on the mess he’s made, and he throws himself into the seat opposite and eyes my breakfast.

‘Help yourself,’ I offer.

‘No, it’s OK. You have it.’