The first thing she notices is the smell of the rug. A stale, dusty whiff of wool finding its way into her mouth and nostrils. A familiar smell of sorrow and stillness, the unworldly calm after the storm. And then she realises there is no after, no reprieve. No time to relax, no tranquil cove or harbour for her to shelter in, no time to recover and mend what was broken. No after, just a before. Just the same deceptive calm that lasts only until the church bells start to toll for the next storm. It may be days or even weeks until the next one.

Or maybe just hours.

Without opening her eyes, she pricks up her ears. Holds her breath and prays not to hear the sound of one of the kids opening their bedroom door. The noise that reaches her instantly makes her pulse slow. Bo Ramnes has left their bedroom door open and his heavy snoring is a sure sign he won’t be awake for hours yet.

The fringe of the tufted rug burns against her cheek. She opens one eye. The winter darkness outside the window tells her nothing, the middle of the night looks the same as eight in the morning. One of the kids could come skipping down the stairs any minute, wanting breakfast. Then her eyes find the digits on the DVD player: 04.43 and she suddenly becomes aware that she has held her breath for too long and her vision is getting blurred. She slowly exhales and takes a new breath. And as she does, the pain crashes over her.

With practised determination, she goes through the most important movements while she gingerly pushes up into sitting position, opening and closing her hands first, rotating her wrists, bending her elbows, shrugging her shoulders. There’s a sharp new pain in her left shoulder blade and the usual jolt along the back of her ribcage, but nothing seems broken this time. Every inch of her feels battered and bruised, that’s all, as though she’s been tossed around a cement blender.

The world wobbles when she stands up and she grabs hold of the sofa for support. Its cushions have been knocked over and scattered across the floor. When she bends down to put them back, she finds her underwear. After straightening up the sofa, she goes out to the kitchen and drops the knickers into the bin under the sink, then makes sure to push them further down into the rubbish, hiding them under the brown grounds from a coffee filter. She knows Bo would fly off the handle if he realised she’d thrown them out and that she is never going to be able to make herself put them on again. He’s right, she thinks, the problem is that I don’t do what he tells me to.