The middle-aged woman stood at the familiar glass door of the town library. Even from outside, standing on the sunny concrete step, she knew the smell of the room precisely. It reeked of books, papers, aged carpet. Generations of crosslegged children, burning up with stories. Briefly, she shut her eyes. Would she make it in today? Could she? She grasped the vertical silver handle, unaware that she was holding her breath.

‘I see the weather’s on the improve,’ the librarian trilled automatically. But, she thought uneasily as the woman stepped in, but oh those purple bags under the eyes, that awful hair. Derelicts were a dime a dozen in her line of work, but what did you say to a respectable 48-year-old woman who looked like she should be in a hospital bed?