I don’t remember making it to my nest. I don’t remember going to sleep. The last thing I remember is pressing my hand against a tree trunk near Battersea Park while steadying myself enough to carry on. So when I wake curled in the sunken bath in Milo’s funky-smelling little den, I’m not expecting to be here, and for a moment my heart beats so hard it threatens to crack my ribs. After a few deep breaths, I calm down. My mouth feels horrible, my throat sore and dry. With difficulty, I sit up and look around. Gray light spills through the tiny high-up windows. It doesn’t look as though the sun is shining, and I can’t tell what time it is by the position of the light on the walls like I can in my nest because Milo’s room is on the other side of the building. A pile of clothes takes up one corner of the room—empty food cans another. But no Milo—unless he transforms into a pile of blankets when he sleeps. Something smells funkier than normal. When I look down at my shoulder, I see what it is: a wad of what looks like damp grass and sticks is strapped to my shoulder with toilet paper and Sellotape.
