Sannah hated Saint. She hated him for who he was, she hated him for who she was, she hated him for not being Faro, she hated him for not being Bayim.

She hated him because despite how good they were to her, despite ultimately and conclusively knowing that Faro and Dierdra were better people than Saint was, knowing beyond doubt that a life attached to them would have so much more good in it than a life attached to him, she was ecstatic to be going home.

And he was home. The only home she had, the only place she wanted to be. Since she'd left that warehouse, Sannah had been living inside a bell jar, thick, dirty glass between herself and the rest of the world, nothing and no-one having meaning or consequence.

And now, now here he was in front of her, and that bell jar had shattered, and every tiny shard speckled her skin, and she was just a bloody, mutilated, glittering stump. But she was alive, and she loved him. Numen, she loved him so fiercely it flayed her.

He was paler, his features sharper, his eyes more shadowed than she remembered. He seemed less tall. He'd grown in her mind, during his absence, into a giant. She was shocked to be standing in that dank doorway facing someone the size of a mortal man.

He nodded, didn't say hello, his eyes meeting hers for only a fraction of a millisecond. She didn't know if it was him or her that broke the contact first. He stepped back to let her in the door.

"Dai and Rade?" She couldn't even form the question properly.

"At hers."

She sat on the corner of the sofa, awkward and unsteady. "You're going to Caledia?" Her voice was shaking.

He turned away, towards the kitchen cabinets lining the opposite wall. "You wanna tea?"

She nodded, then realised he couldn't see her. "Yes please." So formal.

"I've got a job. For Raph. A pickup."

Sannah realised the tea was just a ruse, an excuse not to have to look at her while they spoke, to keep his back to her while he imparted this information.

"And I remembered you said that's where you wanted to go. Your sister and that."

He turned to face the room as soon as he'd finished speaking. Passed her a hot mug, sat at the table. He stared at his screen, not looking up.

"I do." Sannah looked down, at her drink, at her knees. "If you're going. I'd..."

"It's zen. I'm going anyway." His tone told her not to get excited, not to presume that this favour meant anything bigger.

Saint was still looking at his screen, ignoring her. Like it was nothing that they'd rubbed, that he'd gone, that she'd gone too. Like that sort of thing, that lack of care, was the ordinary stuff of everyday life. Totally indifferent.

In her mind's eye, Sannah saw Dierdra and Faro, their kindness, their concern,  their closeness, so clearly. That's how I'd like it to be, she thought. But I don't deserve that. I deserve this.

Saint began to pack his pipe, his eyes still fixed on the screen laying on the table, as if she wasn't even there. Yet it was such a comfort, watching him perform that familiar movement! After lighting and inhaling, and still without looking straight at her, he extended his arm slightly to offer the pipe to Sannah, even though she'd never accepted it before.

This time, she nodded. Leaned in.

"I don't know... I'm not sure how to..." Her voice was faltering, pathetic.

He moved to the sofa to hand it over. "Just put it—here. Inhale—like this."

She followed his instructions. It didn't burn like she thought it would. The smoke was cool and velvety smooth, like the downy skin of a refrigerated mushroom.

And then her head was sparks and then her head was fizzing soda and then her head was cream. And then she was a cat, and she was licking her paws, incredibly happy, and it was so good to have him here again, close enough to smell, to touch.

"It's good to see you," she said, and it was like they were magnetised, every part of her on every part of him, and the sofa drawing them down.

***

"It's just a pick up," Saint said, as they walked through the hot, dry streets, the smog suffocating overhead.

Sannah felt dizzy and sick, the after-effects of the chang.

"Raph wants me to collect a shipment from a supplier he's working with. Up in Caledia. So I gotta go up there, hand over the money, bring the stuff back. Simple."

"OK," Sannah rubbed the back of her neck, sweaty in the cloying heat. "And you've got a car?"

"Raph does."

They turned up those same old steps, the brutalist flats across the way shimmering in the sticky sun. A full bin bag had been ripped open on the pavement, and its contents were scattered across the street. Stained, torn envelopes, mould-patterned bread crusts. An empty cheese packet, covered in an unidentifiable liquid. Cabbage leaves, brown and slimy at the edges. The rotten smell was overpowering, everywhere.

Static. "Saint." Buzz. Click. Inside.

Panic. Was she supposed to wait in the corridor? In the smoke room? Follow him through to the back? Sannah didn't know, and Saint gave her no indication. In the end she floundered on the threshold between the corridor and the smoke room, weighing up her options.

He walked on to the far room, not looking back, leaving her to her own devices. The smoke room was empty today, so she chose it as the lesser of two evils. She sat on one of the sofas, studied her hands, and waited.

After forever, the back door opened a crack. Sannah's relief soured into fear when Onyx Teeth—Raph?—appeared, rather than Saint. He didn't look at her, turning back to face the door. Saint followed him out.

"So, you all set," Raph addressed Saint. Sannah couldn't tell if it was a question or a statement. His tone was monotone and authoritative. Everything he said just sounded like an order.

Saint nodded, touching his pockets briefly, as if there was something important inside. Raph's eyes swivelled to Sannah for the first time, and she shrunk into her clothes under his gaze, like a tortoise.

"You takin' your piece?" He was sharp, suspicious.

Saint just nodded again.

"I don't want no boars sniffing around my shipment 'cos you're pulling some Exotic bitch along," Raph snarled.

"She'll stay in the car," Saint said. "And a couple is less suspicious."

Raph looked at Sannah sideways, his face expressionless. "You skit this up, it's on you," he said, his voice low. "I don't want a repeat of what happened with Mas. You know how things go down."

Mas, Sannah thought, and shuddered. That was the tall man, from before. That called her one of Andrey's pieces, tried to fight with Saint. What happened with Mas? Her fingernails dug into the skin of her palms.

Raph's tone lightened, his voice still low, his face only inches from Saint's. "Do this well, you're moving up. I been watching you. You don't run off your mouth, and I like that. And I like that you volunteered for this. You hungry, and a youth should be hungry. You could make lieutenant. Think on that. Them's digits there, kin. Power, pieces, you name it. So don't crank this up."

The men nodded to one another, Raph's eyes boring into Saint the whole time.

"The car's in the garage." Raph handed Saint a set of keys. "You got the papers. Ain't nothing to link that vehicle to me. You get caught, you going down. An' I got people on the inside." He looked Saint dead-on, the unspoken threat unmistakable. "No contact from here. You bring the shipment to the arranged point at the arranged time. You know what to do." Raph nodded again, then was gone.

Saint turned to Sannah for the first time, his shoulders drooping slightly as he exhaled. Is he scared? Sannah had never seen him show vulnerability before, had assumed he wasn't afraid of anything.

He leaned towards her, lifted his hand to touch her, as if seeking comfort. Then there was a noise from the corridor and he stepped away, his usual composure restored, his eyes sharp on the doorway.

The corridor door opened and Sannah's heart sank into her trainers. It was the Devil. Just a man. Just a man. He can't hurt you, she told herself. He was fully dressed, no dressing gown, in a baggy grey t-shirt tucked into jeans.

"You going to Caledia, then?" The Devil addressed Saint, his voice wheedling. "You can do some work for me while you're up there. A little pick up of my own. Good digits, and no extra effort on your part." His lips curled up at the corners, a grimace of a smile. "You can even use the merchandise as long as you get it back undamaged. I know you like that stuff." He turned his smile to Sannah and she stepped away, repulsed.

Saint took Sannah's arm and pulled her, hard, towards the door. "Skit you, Andrey," he hissed. He pushed past, sending the older man spinning into the wall.

***

Sannah awoke with a start, adrenalin running through her body, cold sweat clammy on her skin. Bayim's bloody body, crumpled on the pavement, remained in the centre of her vision, superimposed over the dashboard, the windscreen, the motorway.

She clenched her eyes tight. Just a dream. You're paranoid. It wasn't what it sounded like. (It was it was it was it–

"You alright?" Saint looked at her from the driver's seat, shifting the car up a gear. "You were making noises."

She nodded, uncertainly. "I just fell asleep. I had a nightmare. It's nothing."

She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, pulled herself towards the door of the car. She felt embarrassed, angry at Saint, though she didn't know why. She wanted a bit of space from him but there was nowhere to go.

She took The Subaltern Exotic out of her bag, buried her eyes into it to give herself a bit of privacy. She'd read nearly all of it all now, though she still didn't understand everything. She didn't even have web access to look up the words. The last chapter was on the objectification and fetishisation of Exotic women. Sannah thought of Carter, and Dierdra. Laine. Exotic spice. She glanced sideways at Saint. He was staring at the road. Is that why he he rubs with me? Because I'm Exotic? Does he think of me differently to other girls because of my race? The thought made her sick.

Saint glanced over, and she looked away quickly, turning back to the book. Keep reading. Avoid his eye. She flicked to the second chapter, her favourite. The language was simple, less wordy. Yet it felt like the truth.

Being poor is not a crime; yet in Albia it is treated as such.

Something about it was powerful.

This must not go on.

Something about it made her stronger.

It is time for the downtrodden Exotic to stand up to the Generic establishment, shout, "What do I deserve?

Something about it made her hate herself less.

But the chapter itself wasn't the best part, wasn't why she loved it so much. The best part was the author. T. M. William, Sherbourne University.

An Exotic, just like her, at Sherbourne. Those green lawns, that beautiful order, paired with the promise of sunrise in words like this. Sannah shut her eyes. She would get Judit, and she would finish her Sherbourne application. Maybe T.M. William would be her teacher. She imagined him like Faro, but older. Smiling with crinkled eyes in a soft brown suit. Maybe he'd support her, give her advice on her work. The father and role model she'd never had.

She closed the book gently and placed it in the footwell, resting her head against the window. They were in the fast lane, and Sannah watched the fixed faces of the other drivers, staring ahead as they sped past.

The traffic began to slow, and soon they were snarled up in a jam, crawling along. A child in the back of the next car, almost close enough to touch, stared at her and pointed, his mouth moving, forming words. A woman in the front seat, probably his mother, looked back and hit him away from the window. Both adults, the woman and the man driving, then looked at Sannah, their eyes full of hostility and disgust. Sannah sank in her seat, prayed the jam would soon be over, so they could be alone.

Saint was silent, staring ahead, one hand on the wheel, the other held to his face, the knuckle of his index finger grazing his lip. Sannah glanced at him then looked away, quickly. I can't believe we rubbed, only a few hours ago. He was a stranger to her now. She wished she could smoke again, get lost in that blissful oblivion of the chang.

"Boars." Saint indicated the nearside lane, cordoned off by standing police cars, their lights flashing. They'd reached the reason for the traffic jam. They were under a bridge now, thick grey concrete columns and shadow.

Sannah saw a blue car, its front misshapen and crumpled, doors open, empty. Another car, black, was on the embankment, flipped upside-down, showing its sooty belly, its dirty metal entrails. The colourful detritus of life was pressed cheerlessly against the upended rear windscreen.

A body was laid out the road, anointed with broken glass, blood, crouching paramedics. A girl, no older than Sannah, dirt smeared on her white face, blood in her hair, was huddled in a silver blanket on the embankment by the upturned car. She was crying, her shoulders shaking in the foil sheet. Sannah stared at the tableau of misery, then looked away.

They inched past and sped up, the jam opening out. Forward again, the cars moved towards their destination, on with their lives, set free from the inconvenient tragedy of others.

A sign flashed past the windscreen.

Caledia: 200 miles.