Chris heard the crash and knew what it would be. He went out onto the fire escape. Sure enough, there was Spencer facedown on the metal floor, phone in hand, out cold. Chris thought about dragging him inside, but the last time he’d done that he’d put his back out. He stomped back into the apartment.

Moments later he was back with some chalk. He set to work drawing a white outline around Spencer, inadvertently nudging him while doing so. Spencer stirred slightly. His finger gave a last twitch and pressed the call button. Chris, engrossed in his work, didn’t notice.

Spencer moaned. “Ronaduhbank.”

The phone screen said the call was being answered—either by Ron or his voice mail.

“Ronaduhbank? What the hell is ronaduhbank?” said Chris. “Screw ronaduhbank. I’m tired of being gentle with you. I’ll give you something to remember in the morning.”

“So you’re quite sure nothing’s changed?” asked Lonnie.

“Hundred percent. Why?”

Lonnie Estevez looked doubtfully at the slightly disheveled man sitting opposite. He was turning a cigarette pack round in his hand on the chair arm. She sighed her indecision, looked out of the window and then down at her desk. Spencer felt his irritation rise. Why did she want to make something more complex than it needed to be? His phone was going crazy on vibrate—all missed calls from Angela. He’d messaged her to text not call, as he couldn’t speak. She’d instantly messaged him back, saying: “Call me,” which was kind of annoying.

His head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton wool, and he was sweating. He needed to call Ron-at-the-Bank, too, but had yet to think of a plausible reason for not doing it the previous day.

“You’ve been attending at Common Ground, right?”

“You know I have.”

He quite liked Lonnie. He’d made her laugh during his first session and had known from then on he’d have no trouble managing the CPS situation.

“Lonnie, why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind, so I can address it?”

She played with the chain of her necklace, causing the small gold crucifix to dance in her cleavage. It was a fine cleavage, too, Spencer had always conceded. He preferred it when she wore her hair down, but obviously she was in full-on work mode today. Either that or she hadn’t had time to wash it after her spin class. But down suited what was an attractive Hispanic face. Half-Hispanic, half-Navajo to be precise.

“It’s your face, Spencer.”