The night before my 30th birthday I got so drunk that I woke up with the front door wide open. I must have stumbled in and gone to bed, so care free that I didn’t think to check the locks and windows.

I tell this story often now, to my girlfriend and the two survivors we share our house with. We exchange stories of the privileges of our old “normal lives” – shopping for groceries, going to concerts, walking home at night in the dark without our wits about us.

As we reminisce about my last normal birthday, picking at a bowl of peanuts and some of the wine I am brewing for summer, the conversation peters and they wish me happy returns as we watch the curtains begin to change hue, from midnight to aubergine. We hurriedly zip up our sleeping bags and make sure we’re touching, so we can nudge each other reassuringly when the voices start.

The next sound I hear is hours later, coming in from the kitchen window. Footsteps on broken glass, sniffles and sobbing. Slow, steady and wary, just like we are. Sounds human.

“Hello..?”

Abby, our next door neighbour. I thought she had left a long time ago, but something about her tone of voice sent me away from the depths of uncanny valley.

“…Tom?…Molly?”

Nobody moves. At least it’s not just me having a hard time with this one.

“I need ibuprofen, Ewan has a fever. Molly please, please..”

I get a nudge from Drew’s side – but not from Molly. Drew counts for Eve AND Drew on his side, so it’s 3 against 1. We lay there like sardines until the sobbing in the distance turns into mangled screams, and nudge each other once again to remind ourselves why we have our safety system. We are ok, we survive, but I’m beginning to have that creeping doubt, like black mould.. that makes me wonder why we bother.