We reach the metal door I designed, and Dad enters the code, followed by a beeping sound. The door opens, and I grimace, covering my mouth and nose at the strong smell of urine, unwashed skin and vomit. The small light in the corner illuminates a thin Bernadette curled up into a ball inside a large animal cage sitting in the middle of the room. There are lines attached to her veins – the blush pink dress I’ve seen her wear loads of times is filthy, and she has an outgrowth of roots, dark against the wine-red hair she always had. She’s pale, make-up non-existent, no expensive jewellery cradling
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