You head towards the bit of the station where you remember the door to the stairwell being, find it and open it. You’d forgotten how bad it is in here - or, no, not forgotten, but assumed your imagination had exaggerated it: the stink of piss, knocked-over cans of Carling, a matted scrap of tinfoil. You’ll be quick: you jog up the steps taking in three at a time.

You’re out of breath and sweating by the time you reach the top. The door to the roof is already ajar, inched open by the drift of snow pressing against it.

Joan awakes to find she has been unwell on Tim's letter. She is lying across the doorway to her bedroom, her left shoe missing, the puddle of liquid – thin, evil-smelling – congealing together her hair, the letter, its envelope and the fabric of the rug.

She prises herself up, sits on her bed and is unwell once again onto where she was lying.

She goes downstairs and rattles her letter box – sometimes the letters crumple and get wedged in it, but there is no post, not today.