I shiver as the cold winter wind hits me, and Marc puts an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close. ‘Don’t you feel the cold?’ I whisper, warming myself against his chest. ‘At times.’ ‘Why don’t you ever wear a coat?’ ‘Because I like the sting of cold weather.’ ‘Why?’ I rub my fingers together to keep away the chill. ‘I had it stolen from me. The cold. When I was a child. I was taken to LA in the baking sun, and missed year after year of ice and snow in England. So now I want to feel the cold. Every bit of it. As much as I can.’ ‘It must have been awful for you,’ I say, as Marc steers me along the road and back onto the main square. ‘To leave your old life behind like that. When you were so young.’ Marc shrugs. ‘When you’re young, you accept what’s happening because it feels normal. But I was messed up for a long time. A long, long time. I wasn’t like you, taking care of everyone.’ ‘Oh I don’t know.’ I smile at Marc.
