We get to the biscuit factory just after 2:00 a.m. It’s silent, apart from the distant sound of a main road. By this point, I feel really tired; I suppose I don’t usually do this much exercise when I’m this hungry. My breathing is faster than usual, and my legs feel wobbly. “Are you all right?” Ben asks me, as he unlocks the gate.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.”

Inside, the factory is completely dark. Ben turns the lights on. They flicker overhead. Weirdly, everything feels more awkward between us in the building, as though the natural moonlight had helped soften us and made talking easier. Now, under harsh fluorescents we avoid each other’s eyes.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to come in,” I say. I notice that I’m slurring my words. “I’ll probably stay for a bit and then go home later.”

“Nah, it’s all right,” Ben says. He frowns at me. “Are you sure you’re okay, though?” I nod.

We go down the corridor to my studio, Ben walking ahead of me, and looking back occasionally. I watch the back of his neck, strands of hair trembling over it with each of his steps, and, briefly, the memory of sucking his blood from the towel I used to clean his cut comes back to me—the feel of it going easily down my throat, and his experiences very momentarily inhabiting my body: traveling on the bus to school, eating sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and, then, later, much later, seeing me approaching the biscuit factory, the sun beating down on him, me emerging from a shadow, his eyes lingering on my face and my body, him finding me attractive.

“So, are you definitely leaving the—” Ben points behind us with his thumb, to signify the Otter, even though the actual building is miles away now and probably in a completely different direction. We’ve stopped outside my studio door.

“The Otter?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“I suppose I haven’t completely decided yet.” I put my key in the lock and the door opens. It’s pitch-black inside. There’s a strange, sour smell in the air. I step in.

“Sorry,” I say. “It’s kind of messy.”