I look down at the box, and then at Gideon. His eyes are very dark. They watch me. I start to wonder whether I’m the only person who can see him, whether, somehow, he is able to lurk in the shadows without any of the other humans noticing. Heather hasn’t acknowledged his presence at all. She just glares at me.

“Hello? Are you in there?”

“Oh,” I say, and I turn my attention to her. “Sorry.”

“You’re not kicking the box of hangers, are you?” Heather asks. “This can’t break,” she says, her voice and eyebrows raised. “This box cannot break. Do you understand? We cannot have any more catastrophes!”

“I . . .” I’m finding it hard to understand how a cardboard box breaking could be considered a catastrophe, and also how my sliding the box across the floor could even break it in the first place.

“No.” Heather shakes her head. “Don’t talk back to me. Up.”

“What?”

“Pick. It. Up.”

“Oh,” I say, and I diligently follow her orders, holding the box up in front of my face again, and shuffle out of the room behind her, following the sound of her huffing.

When I get to the step Gideon is standing on, I feel my breath leave me, like I’ve exhaled but can’t inhale, as though Gideon has stolen all the oxygen from the space. Heather’s footsteps continue down the entire staircase, until she stops at the bottom, waiting for me, but I have to slow down; the box barely fits past Gideon, who is standing to one side. As I squeeze past, I feel his shirt against my right hand—his skin is very warm underneath it—and then a button, and then, alarmingly, hair where his shirt is undone, and breath from his nostrils, very hot and warming my thumb. Once the box is through, I see his face. He smiles at me; it’s a kind smile, as if he is saying, “Oops, sorry,” but he doesn’t talk. He says nothing, makes no sound, as if he doesn’t want to give away his presence. I smile back, and move down to the next step but, as I do, I feel something brush my back and then my bum. At first, I can’t tell if it’s the hem or cuff of a shirt, and therefore an accident, or a hand; but then it’s obvious—I feel his fingers grope around one buttock like he is trying to prise a piece of me off my body. At the same time, he brings his mouth close to my neck and his breath heats my skin. He releases after a moment and, bewildered, I stagger down the stairs. When I get to the bottom and put the box down on the floor, I look up to see if Gideon’s still there, but he isn’t; he’s gone.