I’m still on the sofa in the common room, but two major things are missing: Callum and my shakes. Lifting my head, I see a grey blanket thrown over my legs, and a scrap of cardboard leaning against my glass of water with ‘back soon’ written on it. The shouting subsides, but the giggles grow close. Not wanting to hang about and see exactly how far away ‘soon’ is, I get up and head up the stairs, blanket in tow. The prospects and the pretty things they have with them barely bat an eyelash at me. I’m used to it, and in a way, comforted by how invisible I manage to be in this place. There’s a fine balance between being needed, yet not being required . . . and it’s exactly how I like it. At least, I think it is. With my bedroom door shut, I flop onto the bed and reach over for my TV remote. The channels don’t herald much of any interest, but it’s noise, and a distraction nonetheless. I need to quiet my mind, let the memories of the night I lost Mike ebb back into the wee box I keep them sealed in, and regroup.
