It was relatively easy to talk Baz into coming back to mine—I don’t think he wants to deal with his aunt yet—but he’s still whinging about it. “You don’t have a sofa,” he says. “We can sit on the floor.” “You don’t have food. I’ll bet you don’t have cutlery. Or bath towels. You don’t even have a bed.” “I have a bed. A mattress is a bed.” He looks away from me. I think he might be blushing. With Baz, that’s more of an expression than a change in colour. I knock my shoulder into his, and he smiles at the floor.
