Worse.
Better.
Anything.
Heath shifts in my pocket.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I know.”
The M2 finally opens up.
By the time I reach Whitstable, the light has gone soft and low, the sky brushed pink over the rooftops. The sea is hidden from the road, but I smell it before I see it. Salt, damp, fish and chips, warm tarmac cooling after the day.
The house is quiet when I unlock the door.
Too quiet.
Not in the usual way.
In the way it was after Philip left.
I stand in the hallway with my overnight bag in one hand and a hamster in my shirt pocket, and for a second, I don’t move.
Then Heath pokes his nose out, looks around, and yawns.
Actually yawns.
Tiny pink mouth.
“Look at you,” I murmur. “World traveller.”
He ignores the praise and burrows back into my pocket.
I carry the bags through to the kitchen.
Same pale wood. Same glass looking out towards the darkening garden. Same line of sea beyond, barely visible now except for the faint gleam where the last light catches it.
I set Heath’s cage on the island and get everything arranged. Fresh bedding. Water. Food. The blue beanie in the corner, because this is his legal residence now.
When I ease him out of my pocket, he resists for one second, gripping the fabric with both front paws.
“Come on,” I say softly. “You can’t sleep in there all night.”
He releases me with obvious reluctance and lets me place him in the cage.
He sniffs.
Turns once.
Climbs straight into the beanie and disappears.
No drama.
No shaking.
No frantic dash.
Just gone.
