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‘Do you need me to carry your bag?’ I ask. ‘You look tired.’

He doesn’t reply.

‘Tommo?’

‘What?’ Tom turns to me, eyes dull. He looks … disorientated.

‘Are you okay?’

He nods.

‘You don’t look okay. What’s up, Tommo?’

‘Just tired.’

‘How was school?’

‘I don’t remember.’ Tom’s words are soft now – almost slurred.

My heart races, but I keep my questions calm. ‘Nothing? Not even what you had for lunch? Tom … you don’t look too well. Maybe you should have a lie-down on the sofa when we get home.’

‘Yeah.’ His feet trudge over stones.

I remember chatting with another mum in London once.

Usually, I kept my head down at the school gates, the quiet, downtrodden wife. But this mum sought me out. Forced me into a conversation.

She told me her son, Ewan, never remembered what happened at school. She said it was common.

I’d nodded, feigning agreement. But actually, Tom always remembered his school day. Our walk home was filled with chatter about reading books, school dinners and gold stars.

‘Okay, champ.’ I ruffle Tom’s hair, the words catching. ‘A little rest. And then I think a trip to the doctor’s would be a good idea.’

‘Yeah.’ Tom stumbles a little, his black school shoe turning under itself.

‘Tom?’ I take his arm.

He gives a languid blink. ‘Maybe … maybe I’m getting a cold. Everything looks blue today.’

I stiffen.

When things were especially bad between Olly and me, Tom became fixated on colours. How grass wasn’t really green, but green, yellow and brown. And the teacher’s skirt was ‘turquoise like Daddy’s sweatshirt’.

A sign of stress, the doctor said.

We approach our sleeping house, the curtains drawn. They’re made from thick, heavy velvet, and I hung them the very first day we moved.

Heavy curtains are a necessity for anyone running from someone.

‘Do you want something to eat?’ I unlock the front door. ‘I bought some biscuits. You can have a snack and I’ll take your temperature.’

‘I don’t want a snack,’ says Tom, heading straight through our messy living room and throwing his coat and bag over the bannisters. ‘Biscuits are too brown today.’

Too brown.

He hasn’t mentioned colours since we left London …

‘I just want to sleep,’ says Tom.