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Natalya knelt just inside the mouth of the cave, fussing with a piece of chalk. Her calloused hands made slow, sure arcs, carving a circle on the ground. She was a Lorne-viola, which was a nice way of saying she occasionally stuck out; violet skin, onyx hair still up in the large Velcro rollers, eyes like smouldering coals. She still needed to do her makeup. She wore a turquoise jumpsuit that left her back and arms bare. She’d left the house in a rush, half-preparing for a party, half-preparing for a hunt; the work-life balance was still being figured out. She opened the hatch of the little carrier by her side and pulled out a small white rabbit, holding him at eye level. He busily munched away on a piece of lettuce, surveying her with calm disdain. “This is kidnapping, this is,” he said after a while, which Natalya wasn’t quite sure how to engage with.

The sky’s full of thunder. The drum-roll to a day of hard truths. I need to stay positive: keep bleak thoughts out of my head, stay off whisky as long as I can. Keep busy. I mustn’t sit still. Distraction, Philippa always said, can be a great help. Thank God Grandad wouldn’t fork out for a dishwasher. I’m trying not to think about him. I see him in his blue chair, sagging to the right. But this time he’s lifeless, his false teeth bulging, a broken-down doll lying at the dump.