First thing in the morning. Sea fades into a dove-coloured sky, wind turbines churn half-visible on the horizon. Oyster shells, fathoms deep, discarded a hundred years ago, two hundred – broken crocks and house bricks, rounded into egg-shapes by the tide. On the shoreline, crushed shells and polished sea glass, the greenish shade of jellyfish. A rope filthy with weeds, driftwood the size of a human torso. A yellow jeep makes its way towards a pale boulder that turns out to be the massive corpse of a seal, half-buried in a sand pit of its own making.

Inland, the roads are deserted, the pavements free of rubbish. McDonald’s closed, the nail bars and the hairdressers shuttered – and the carpet shop and the dentist on the corner. The gulls have moved on, the only sound the songbirds now, or if you come in closer, you can hear Lindsay breathing as she runs down the middle of the road, running, running, running in sweatpants, elbows scissoring, ponytail bobbing, zipping along with a spring in her step. It’s happening, she can feel it, something changing deep inside.

At Number 23, the kitchen’s fragrant with the scent of new-baked bread, and not the fake smell either, like they pump out in supermarkets. This is real, an achievement. Steve takes a picture of his first successful loaf looking splendid on the breadboard – splendid, that’s a word you don’t hear often, one he stashes in his mind for later.

‘Ten more minutes!’

Sweeping Max’s stuff to one side – felt pens, scribbled paper, railway timetables, Mario figures, Steve lays the table for three. Knives lined up by the side of matching plates – cereal for Max. He searches the top cupboard for a milk jug, and the glass butter dish. Butter. Good for you, no matter what they say. Forgot to write his dream down this morning. Cows in a field. Covered in flies. And some one said, look, just look, who was it that said just look, see there . … ?