She pulled off her right sock and shook out the sand, then turned it inside out and hit it fifteen or so times against the arm of her plastic chair, just to get out every last little grain. She lay it over her shoulder for safekeeping, and proceeded to do the same with the other sock.

“How did it go?” asked Sarah, having heard the lashes of undergarments against furniture and coming in to see what was happening. Eilidh didn’t respond. She took a shoe in each hand and bashed them together, and little pieces of beach dust rained down onto the floor, and she kept going until the rain ceased and only sound came out.

“I wouldn’t do that inside.” Eilidh looked up at Sarah, her eyes and lip beginning to betray her, as her face grew wet and red. Sarah didn’t waver. “I’ll get the brush.”

At 5:39 Cora went to check on the chicken nuggets. They were still a bit soft and not quite as golden brown as she would have liked, so she closed the oven door again, forcing a billow of hot air onto her face that made her eyes sting slightly. She glanced at the nuggets through the halftone-dotted oven door to check they were safe, and rose back up with just her legs. She noticed the time on the oven clock. 3:46. She had always kept the clocks in the house exactly on time, and took a dim view of people who did not. There had been a power cut. Or something.

I lay my pen on the table and play with the lid. I suck it in such a way that I form a little vacuum, and the lid clings to my top lip and dangles like a christmas tree decoration, or a misguided limpet on a dinghy, or a daughter saying goodbye to a leg that she knows she won’t see again for a long, long time. I trail my gaze up to the window and through the glass and slide it through the air. The evening autumn sun glitters through twinkling branches of varying wisdom, some trembling at the acceptance of their fate, a kaleidoscope of layers of red and orange and still-green, and my lip begins to hurt, and I push off the lid with my lower jaw and it falls to the page, splattering a tiny amount of residual ink.

Shall we ask them to turn it down? It’s pretty loud.

My teeth are rattling. Excuse me will you turn it down? My teeth are rattling.

No.

But my teeth are rattling.

Then please could you rattle them more quietly?

Hmm.

Hello thank you good day.

Can you believe it?

People today.

I know.

Maybe rattle them more loudly.

I’m not sure how.

Here, like this.

Wow that is loud, let me try.

That’s it. That’s great. Really good. That will show them.

Excuse me please could you turn it down.

Turn what down.

Your teeth.

What about them.

They are rattling very loudly. People are uncomfortable.

No.

Please.

No.

The crunch of gravel from below and beyond the window tickled the boy out of his daydream, and he rose up to run almost before his legs could receive the message from his ears, stumbling onto the thick carpet and scrambling back up. He knelt onto the radiator and watched through the wet glass as a large green car landed in the yard and came to a gentle stop. He waited in anticipation to see his uncle emerge, but no one stirred from the vehicle, and his knees began to burn on the hot metal, and he shuffled himself around to keep them from hurting.

You kick a can down the wet cobbled street. The end of the road bends away like a mars bar left over a radiator; the houses follow along to either side. The can clanks along and comes to rest under the wheel of a red parked VolksWagen. At the end of the street you can see the skyline of the town, painted into the bowl between two hills. It’s early morning, but you haven’t been to sleep, so as far as you’re concerned it’s very late at night. A light frost sleeps on the windows, and quiet wisps of steam breath snake around your nose and mouth, before bursting into weak plumes. You follow the path of the can down to the car, and bend down the wheel to pick it up. You grab the wet, half crushed drink container and trip on the yellow gaze of a dark cat, crouching on the pavement beside the car, waiting for you to show her the way home.

She lay her stomach flat over the seat of the chair and craned her head downwards, holding the  sharp-edged chair legs with her hands and counterbalancing herself with outstretched toes. Her hair dangled and blew in the breeze from the open door and flicked in her eyes. She brushed it away with one hand, and contnued to curve her line of sight to the underneath of the large wooden stool, at which point she realised she could have just picked up the chair and turned it upside down, and so got up, did so, and, sure enough, found the envelope.

She draws a line in white chalk across the centre of the room, perpendicular to the dark wooden boards. A beam of sunlit dust brushes one side of the partition and leaves the other untouched. She crumbles and crushes the chalk in her hand, lets it fall to the floor on the darkened side, and lays herself down.

A hot wet smell slithered out of the open pipe and rubbed itself uninvited against her nostrils. A centipede scuttled around the base of the cistern in a hurry. Maybe it was late for dinner. How many legs do centipedes have? she thought. It went by too quickly for her to count. Probably more than me. Holding her nose, biting her lip, closing her eyes and ears, she slid herself onto the edge of the opening, and let herself slide into the dark.

I’ll meet you at the railroad tracks. By the big tree, next to the wind, below the sun. Just near the dead raccoon. I hope it’s still there. In case it’s not, check for signs. Bones, little ones: raccoons have tiny fingers and few toes. Specks of blood or entrails. Or ants who have followed a promising trail only to find nothing left. Bits of stripey fur. Or stripey bits of fur? I’m not sure how raccoons work.