Simmons had been in her hospital bed where he had left her last night, but the room was different. It had no door, only an enormous window. He had stood, nose practically touching the glass, breath flowering and fading on the surface. Holly fussed around her in an old-fashioned white nurse’s uniform, tucking in the bed sheet, checking vitals. He called out, but neither of them reacted. He smacked the flat of his palm against the glass so hard it stung; not so much as a flicker of eyes in his direction.

He looked at the clock by his bed: 5.14 a.m., barely worth trying to get the last half hour before his alarm caught up with him. His subconscious still clung on to that raw feeling on his palm even now that the dream had evaporated. He looked at his left palm, half expecting to see it glowing pink from the impact, but only a pasty white hand hovered in front of him. He slipped on a pair of shorts and stumbled off in search of breakfast. Demetrious watched from the comfort of the sofa as Porter ambled past like a Neanderthal man, arms dangling by his side and feet dragging to make a swish, swish against the laminate floor.

He opened the fridge, staring blankly at the pitiful amount of milk he had left, barely enough to cover the bottom of the container, and decided to head to the twenty-four-hour garage down the road. He swapped his shorts for jeans and a black fleece, opting for the five-minute walk over a lazy drive.

The girl at the checkout smiled at him as he placed his basket in front of her. She had worked here as long as he could remember, and reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. She had a badge clipped near her collar with SAM stamped on in bold black capitals, and her black hair was scraped back from her face into a tight ponytail. Her eyes did a little dance; left, right, up, down, as she looked at him. He wondered for the first time since he got up whether his hair was sticking up at odd angles, and felt himself blushing at the thought of how he must look.

‘Early start?’ she asked cheerfully.

He looked up, startled, as if he’d not seen her there. ‘Afraid so.’ He forced a quick smile. ‘Not as early as yours, though.’

‘Mm,’ she murmured in agreement as she packed his items into a plastic bag. ‘I usually do lates but I’m helping a friend out, and the overtime doesn’t hurt either.’

‘Yeah, I thought I’d usually seen you on a night-time rather than this ungodly hour.’

She laughed. ‘The joys of working for a twenty-four-hour shop.’