“Um, hello,” I say. The door opens a little bit wider, but not enough for me to fully see the person on the other side. All I can see are a few wisps of light gray hair that bend at odd angles; they look like they’ve snapped. They come into the room alone like spider’s legs, while the man stays in the shadows.

“I see what you are, you disgusting . . . you disgusting . . .” The man makes a sound like he has spat. “All of you, disgusting. Japs. Monsters.”

My breath catches in my throat. “Um . . .” I say.

Then I hear another voice out in the corridor, a woman’s. “Fred, Fred!” There’s the sound of flip-flops on a hard floor. Someone is running. The figure disappears and the door closes with a click. I can hear the woman saying, “Fred, what are you doing out of the leisure room? Go on, now, go back; Ethel’s looking for you.” The man called Fred replies, “I won’t listen to your kind! Barbaric, disgusting—” and I hear him shuffle off down the hallway. A couple of moments later, the door opens, and a small woman with dark skin in a nurse’s uniform peers in.

“Hello,” she says. She comes into the room.

“Hi,” I say.

“Sorry about Fred.”

“Oh, no, no, it’s fine.”

“He gets stuck in the Second World War.”

“Must be weird.”

“Huh?” the woman says.

“Oh, nothing, just, I guess it must be weird to be in this place but to also think it’s the Second World War.” This feels like a particularly stupid thing to say. I add, “I mean, obviously.” I clear my throat. “Must be hard.”

“Mm, yes.” The woman smiles. “You’re . . .”

“Lydia, Julie’s daughter. Do you know Julie?”

“I know Julie, yes. She’s finding it tough here, especially, I think, as she’s younger than many of the other residents. It must be worrying for you.”

“Oh, no, not really,” I say, without thinking. “I mean . . . yeah, I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it much.”

The woman steps farther into the room and the door swings shut behind her. “I look after your mum, actually, so I’m getting to know her quite well.”

“Oh god,” I say. “I’m so sorry. For what she’s like. I know she can be a nightmare.” I feel bad as soon as I say this. The woman shakes her head. “Thank you,” I add.

“Is that guy Fred okay with her?” I ask now.

“We try to keep them apart,” the woman says.

“How is she today?” I say, though it feels pointless asking. I know that “good” to Crimson Orchard translates to “bad”; it translates to my mum thinking she is human. And I know that “bad” translates to something neither good nor bad, a state in which she recognizes she is a vampire, but is still not herself.