The three of them head for the front bedroom. There’s a huge painting of a rabbit on the moss green wall above the bed. Marianne and Kat scoop the blankets into their arms, instinct guiding their movements. Bonnie waits by the door. Kat throws her a pillow, almost smacking her in the face. Hey babe, jump in. You know what to do. Bonnie doesn’t move. Bonnie doesn’t know what to do. The rabbit is watching her with its wide brown eyes. Marianne hefts a straight backed chair onto the bed, humming to the music. Bonnie is watching her friends as her heart starts to tap against her rib cage and the words inside her head start to stretch their arms, and slowly wake up. You’ll fuck this up. They’re shimmying as they throw another chair onto the mattress, heads bent in laughter as the bass line thumps. You can’t build a shelter. You can’t build somewhere safe for your friends. The rabbit doesn’t blink. You can’t keep your friends safe. What if you put a pillow in the wrong place and you all climb inside and you can’t get out? What if at that moment the world stops still and you’re all inside and you’ve built it all wrong, you’re going to build it wrong and you’ll all have to live there forever and they’ll never be safe again. Did the rabbit just nod? Bonnie’s palms are beginning to tingle. It’s never safe. No-one knows that more than you. Kat looks up. She pauses, and holds out a hand to get Marianne’s attention. The two girls aren’t dancing now. The look on Bonnie’s face is the same as when they’d found her on the roof that day, talking to the swallows in the liquid amber tree. Kat slides her hand into Marianne’s as they stand there, watching their friend with wary eyes and heavy hearts. Marianne is the first to move. Babe, why don’t you add a pillow? Put it anywhere you like. Bonnie’s gaze moves down slowly from the painting to her friend.