I thought of Mum's room, at the top of the house, the light staining the room pink through the red curtains. I didn't want another house, another room. Didn't want any of this. I closed my eyes again and thought of when I had known which bed I was in, and knew who was in the other beds. When Tilly would come to me in the morning, climb in beside me, smelling of her own room and of the night. And Dad would bring us tea and then make breakfast before walking us to school. And on Sunday evenings we would wash our hair and dry it downstairs, me combing Tilly's hair, her hot body leaning into mine, her breathing heavy.