Paige is out. She was released in year four and she is not permitted to work in financial services and she sells insurance in Georgia, which I know because I looked, once, in a weak week, and then closed the tab.

Logan comes up for parole in three years. I will write a statement. I have a folder for it and I add to it about twice a year, and I have accepted that this will be a thing my life contains at intervals, indefinitely, like a dentist.

Clara and I have coffee when she is up this way, which is twice a year. She has a garden centre to run. She sends photographs of plants I cannot identify and does not explain them.

My father still walks with me on Thursdays. He has stopped saying guilt is only useful if you turn it into action. When I asked him why, he said, “Because I’ve started sitting still occasionally and it’s worse and it’s better.”

Hannah is my friend. It cost a governance structure and a year.

Someone asked me at a conference last spring when I got my life back, and I gave them the answer I have given for six years, which is: the second I stopped asking for permission to save myself.