We sit on the rocks or on the sea wall or on the stoop of his house and we tell each other about our years. I make him laugh while I try to memorise the sounds of his words, and we stay outside, side by side, until the sun gets high and he goes in and makes me food.

Sometimes we talk more. Sometimes he puts on scratchy music and tries to show me how to dance, tripping over his uneven feet. Sometimes he’s quiet, and I just sit next to him, knowing it’s enough.

It’s one day a year, but it’s enough.

And then at dusk I hand him back his jumper and trousers and socks and I walk back down the beach and I disappear under the water and just hope he’ll be there next year, waiting for me on the rocks, his hands in his pockets, his sad eyes brightening when he sees my face.

One of my big fears has always been the tradition of Kit day getting fucked up.

As the minutes tick by and the engine roars into the night, the cold settles deeper into my bones until I don’t feel much of anything. This is definitely preferable; this is more like being in the water, where cold is a refreshing comfort and I have my pelt for insulation.

But then I move, and my body feels like it’s being stabbed with a thousand tiny knives.

Nothing like the water, then.

There’s a cough from behind me, and I turn to see Thomas wandering out from inside the deck. In the washed out ferry lights, the bags under his eyes look like bruises. There’s a large bundle of cloth thrown over his shoulder, and the shadows from it throw freaky angles on his pointy face.

He’s a bit scary, at the right angles. Tall, lean. A bit unpredictable. Kit once said Thomas could be dangerous when he wanted to be, and for the first time since meeting him, I think I might believe it.

“You’re not even remotely dressed appropriately for this weather,” he says, coming to a stop next to me and pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Actually, not dressed appropriately doesn’t even begin to cover it. You’re wildly underprepared,” he adds, eying my oversized jeans and jumper with distaste.

Despite his messy hair and the purple bags under his eyes, he is dressed neatly; his brown canvas jacket looks vaguely trendy, his crewneck sweatshirt fits him well, and his jeans are snug. (I know I’m new to human fashions, but I don’t really understand the point of tight fitting clothes. Can he even bend down?)

“Well, I missed my land-staying ceremony,” I say, turning away from him. “When you stay on land, you’re supposed to tell your herd, and they present you with what you’ll need for life as a human. Coat. Boots. Pelt coat. Flowing ball gown made of kelp. The usual.”