I turn past the blue house. Dusky summer’s day, overcast sky, taste of yesterday’s rain mixed with runner’s labour on my teeth. A faint synthetic flavour strokes my nose.

I turn past the red house. Concentric irridiscent circles pattern the puddles. I hear a scrape and a woosh, as the far wall catches the shadow of a grainy cloud.

I turn past the yellow house. The scent of industry billows black and factory fresh. I see a figure of flame beside the benches, a grey backpack, six empty Fosters tins, and a gas canister by his feet. I watch him flail longer than I should, immobilised by surprise and guiltily captivated by the rhythm of his dance.

My flat is ten metres away. In the cupboard under the stairs by the door is a fire extinguisher. I think to put him out. I could make it. I clutch the key, the green string draped across my palm. And I wonder whether this man wants saving, moreover if he could take the pain, the scars. And I decide it’s not my place.

I turn past the green house.