The heating has been on since six and the kitchen is warm.
Beyond the windows trees are grey skeletons, the lawn knotted with weeds. Three fence panels slump away from their posts, and the sun is out.
Through the glass it pretends that the heat in the kitchen is its doing.
Kara knows it’s lying and pads barefoot across the tiles.
The kettle has boiled but she leaves it, takes the jar beside instead, twists a slip of paper free.
‘Live,’ it reads.
She folds it and places it back, rooting it towards the bottom.
Tomorrow she may pull different.