Tom continues our previous conversation as if the past two hours never happened. ‘You do realise that lots of homeless people have alcohol problems. The woman could’ve had a bottle of vodka in her trolley for all we know.’

‘She didn’t smell like she’d been drinking.’

‘You said she talked about seeing shadows?’

My voice comes out small and unsure. ‘She said they were trying to get inside.’

‘Well, that must tell you something.’ He holds my gaze as if determined to get a response, and I look straight ahead.

A tractor appears before us and my heart leaps to my throat. ‘Tom!’

He brakes hard, cursing under his breath. ‘Look, I know it’s strange after the guy in the anorak, but she clearly wasn’t in her right mind.’

‘And the toddler in the café?’

He checks his mirrors to overtake and then huffs when a bend appears in the road, blocking his view. I’m not sure whether he’s worried about us being late, or is keen to see the back of me, but I can feel the stress rolling off him in waves.

‘Sorry, what was that about the kid in the café?’ he asks.

I know I should stop talking, but I can’t. ‘You saw the way he ran at me and how he banged his fists on the window. It was like he wanted to hurt me.’

Tom laughs but it’s a hollow sound. ‘OK, so you’re actually starting to worry me now.’ He overtakes the tractor and blows out a sigh. ‘I know being attacked by that woman must be upsetting, especially after this morning, but don’t you think you’re taking it all a bit personally? The kid was having a hissy fit because he didn’t like his chicken nuggets; it’s what kids do. And he ran at both of us.’

I remember what my mother said. They can take control of anyone or anything, people you know or strangers. I thought the boy was having a tantrum when he kept kicking the back of his chair, but what if the repetitive behaviour was caused by something else? So many things have happened today that can’t be explained. The way I see it, there are only two possibilities. Either my mum is right, or I’m losing my grip on reality.

I flip down the windscreen visor and peer at my face in the rectangular mirror. There are dark circles under my eyes and my short fringe looks messy, my blonde roots showing through the pastel pink dye. Whenever I got upset as a child, I would stare at my reflection and silently order myself not to cry. The other kids laughed and said I was ugly: my eyes too wide set and my cheeks too round to be pretty. I don’t know if all children are cruel, or if having nothing makes you want to take a chunk out of someone else’s happiness, but I didn’t care if I was pretty or not. I only cared that I had myself. Those same wide-set eyes stare back at me now, assuring me that I know when I’m sleeping and when I’m awake. I know the difference between illusion and reality. I just have to trust myself. I’ll cope, like I always do.