The first thing Fran heard was the rain.

She rolled over, groaning. She'd fallen asleep in a small cove she'd found at the back of the beach as the party last night had started to fizzle out, with her hoodie draped over her body as a makeshift blanket. Her body was stiff and her muscles ached as she moved. Sleep still hung over her in a thick haze, but a sharp wind outside had chilled the inside of the cave. She shivered as she sat up. Her bare skin was gritty with sand; somehow it had gotten everywhere. She could taste grains in her mouth.

"This is gross," she muttered, resolving never to sleep on the beach again. She gathered all her stuff and packed it back into her backpack, then crept to the cavern mouth to inspect the weather. She'd heard the patter of rain on the sand and was prepared for a drizzle, perhaps stretching to a gentle shower, but as she caught sight of the full extent of the weather she felt her heart sink.

I can't believe this is August, Fran thought grimly, watching the rain sheet down outside, thick and heavy. Just yesterday it had been hot and sunny, and now look. You were never safe with British weather. She hadn't brought an umbrella with her, just her hoodie, which she pulled over her head, dislodging another wave of sand from her hair. She really, really wanted a shower.

Hey, maybe the rain will wash it out, she thought, rather optimistically for pre-midday Fran. She stepped into the downpour and started to walk. Her clothes were soaked through in minutes, heavy cold clinging to her skin. She could see her breaths in silver-grey huffs curling in front of her face. She was shivering when her phone started to buzz in her pocket.

She fished it out and was about to pick it up when she caught sight of the caller ID: Mum calling.

She ignored the call.

The journey was tortuous. There were no friendly passers-by on the sand today: the beach was deserted. The rain hammered down, the wind whipping the waves into a misty frenzy. The sky was grey, the sea was grey, the sand was grey, their edges mingling, mixing, overlapping until it all seemed to meld together. Intermittent clumps of seaweed, stranded by the tide, floated miserably in the puddles that Fran splashed through. Her converse were heavy and dense with liquid and squelched uncomfortably against the waterlogged sand.

Her phone kept buzzing throughout the day. Fran checked to see who it was, her fingers growing increasingly stiff and numb each time. It was her mum every time, and after a while she stopped checking whenever her phone vibrated in her pocket. When she took it out again just after lunch she noticed a few more names on the list: one from Ash, a couple from an unknown number. One from Joel. Three from Darren.

Fran felt the stirrings of what would no doubt morph into an uneasy sense of guilt. It occurred to her that her quick note on the fridge might not have been reassuring enough. She'd said she'd be back soon, but she supposed that was over a day ago now. He must be freaking out. And what had Darren done to deserve that? He'd taken her in on such short notice, let her stay in the store, cooked and looked after her, and this was how she repaid him.

The phone started to buzz again, distracting her. She glanced down at the screen. It was Darren again. She didn't really want to talk to anyone, but she figured he at least deserved to know she was okay.

"Hello?"

"Frannie, darling!" her mother's voice was so loud it made her flinch.

"What! Why are you on Darren's phone?" she almost yelled.

"You weren't answering any of my calls, baby. Where are you?"

"None of your business," she snapped down the phone. "You were the one who was like 'you're almost an adult'. Can't I go anywhere without you checking up on me?"

"Listen – honey," she said, "I know you're probably upset about the conversation we had on Thursday."

"And it only took you two days to figure it out," Fran said dryly. "Progress!"

"Come on, Frannie. Now's not the time. How about you come home and we can talk about it?"

"Oh, now you want to talk about it? I wanted to talk two days ago but you made your position perfectly clear. Don't worry, I won't try and have a conversation with you again, you're safe now."

"Fran," she said. "I know you're angry, but think about it. This whole thing is...it's silly, isn't it? And your poor uncle has been worried sick. He's been looking around Seacombe all day for you. Please, just tell me where you are."

That made her hesitate. But then her mother's words hit her properly. How had she passed up on this golden opportunity to slate Darren for his lack of responsibility? That wasn't like her at all. And what of that "poor uncle" crap? She knew her mum didn't care about what Darren was feeling.

She's really thought about this, hasn't she? Fran thought. She was just using Darren to get to her. And it worked: Fran felt her heart twisting inside her chest. But alongside the guilt was a deepening irritation. It seemed like the only thing her mother knew about her anymore was how to get under her skin.

She felt her frown deepen, her resolution intensify. There was nothing to gain from talking to her at this point; it would just make her annoyed. She couldn't let her stop her now.

"I'm going to Larkhill," she said, picking one of the towns she remembered seeing on the map, one far away from Whiteridge. "But I'm fine, okay? Don't come looking for me," she added, to make sure she did. "I'll be back tomorrow."

She hung up before her mother could reply. She stayed there for a second, the waves lapping against her ankles, starting hard at the phone in her hand. This wouldn't be the last she heard from her. The Larkhill lie could only hold up for so long.

Slowly, deliberately, she released her grip, letting the phone fall into the water.

"Whoops," she muttered.

The wind started to whip up, the rain so intense it almost hurt. Fran was used to the water by now: all of her clothes were saturated with rain at this point. But the wind buffeted her, blowing straight into her face so she had to squint into the now horizontal deluge, chilling her skin and permeating right down through her skin. All she could hear was howling, like someone screaming in her ears. She struggled on against the wind, at times nearly blown back by its force.

She pushed her arms up the sleeves of her hoodie in a vain attempt to stop her shivering. She hated this; she was sick of being cold and wet, sick of the ache in her legs and the pain in her feet, sick of being tired and frustrated and desperate. She wanted more than anything to be at home; on the balcony in the store, or even back at her apartment in the town centre, curled up on her bed with music playing in her ears. Anywhere but here.

She couldn't tell the time of the day when she reached the next town along; a little village called Spry. The air still looked the same; stormy blue-grey. She hoped it was mid-afternoon, but she couldn't tell because she'd left her phone in the ocean. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Her stomach started to growl, but she knew if she went inside and dried off she wouldn't want to face the weather. She needed to . She strode through the town, keeping her hood up and her head down so she wouldn't be tempted by the stores on the high street. But as she passed a café, a man pushed open the door and walked out, letting a draught of air from indoors rush past her in his wake. It was so quick: a brief blast of warm air, the mouth-watering sugar-sweet aroma of chocolate and honey. But that was enough to make up her mind. She was tired out and worn through. She deserved a break, at least.

She fumbled with the door handle: her fingers were too stiff and numb to work. Finally she managed to get in and stumbled into the store, barely noticing the warmth. Her hair was plastered to her face, hanging in limp strands over her eyes; her clothes were heavy with rain and dripped onto the linoleum.

"Hot chocolate, please," she said, pushing a handful of coins onto the table. She took the drink to a booth next to the window, slumping against the table wearily. Rain slammed against the windows in waves, crashing and reeling back and then returning again in full force. She wanted to sleep here, to fade away and just not be for a short while.

"Everything's going to be okay," she muttered, running her hand through her hair. A few grains of sand sprinkled onto the table, and she grimaced. "Everything's going to be okay," she repeated, over and over, hoping if she said it enough times she'd start to believe it. And if you even make it there, what next, her inner voice piped up, insufferably smug as always. How are you going to get home? You've got no money, no phone. You gonna walk all the way back, too?

"Shut up," Fran growled to herself. "It's gonna work out. It has to." This was her last chance. Her final option. And she was so close; just one more stretch. How could she give up now?

There was a map on the wall opposite her. Fran studied it as she slowly drained her hot chocolate, tracing her journey. She was closer than she thought, but still further than she'd like.

"Hey, how far is it to Whiteridge Bay from here?" she asked the guy at the counter. "Like, theoretically, if you were to walk it."

"To Whiteridge?" The guy glanced outside, at the storm raging outside, his thoughts clear on his face. "An hour, maybe, on a nicer day."

"Right..." For a second the prospect of having to walk for another hour seemed too much for her to handle, but she forced herself to suck it up. One last chance, she told herself. Give up now and it's all over. "I guess that's not too bad," she said, with forced optimism, already straining to hold up.

"You might want to find a faster way there, though, if you're going to the island," the guy added. "The last boat over is in forty minutes."

Something went still and heavy in her stomach. "What?"

Fran felt her breathing slow; everything seemed to plummet into silence. The initial shock had faded into a low panic. It hadn't occurred to her there was a last boat. She'd never make it. She had spent the last of her money on the hot chocolate, she couldn't afford a bus or a taxi. She'd have to run the whole way...

She could always wait until tomorrow. She imagined it, spending another night trying to sleep on the beach, another night soaked to the skin, listless and alone. The time until then seemed to stretch out interminably out in front of her. She couldn't do it. At this point her motivation to continue was held together with the last shreds of her desperation. There was a grim certainty settling in her mind: she wouldn't last the night. If she was going to do this, she had to do it now.

I have to catch that boat.

She left her hot chocolate on the counter, sprinting out onto the high street. She broke into a run, skidding against the puddles on the street, headlong into the wind. Her lungs ached, her sore muscles protesting each movement. Her breaths tore at her lungs, her chest. The wind howled in her ears, pulling at her hair, as if physically trying to push her away.

The town petered out into countryside. She realised she should have stuck to the beach: the country roads snaked their way up through the fields and forests, twisting and winding. Hard as it was to walk on the sand, at least it was faster. She followed the roads up, up gently sloping hills, praying she'd make it in time...

The road started to level out; she was reaching the top of the hill. The landscape opened up in front of her, brown-grey fields sloping down to the sea. She could see a cluster of buildings up against the empty grey of the ocean below her. That had to be Whiteridge. She had no idea how much time she had left.

The road sloped gently downwards. Fran was grateful she was running downhill at least, but the rain made the road perilous. Her feet slipped against the, but if she kept her mind focused on where she was stepping she managed to control her steps. She could do this. She covered the ground quickly. She was going dangerously, recklessly fast, almost out of control, but she had to make up for the time lost on those awful country roads --

Her foot skidded on the glossy surface of a puddle. She felt her body lurch as she stumbled, and then pitched forwards. Her momentum pushed her hard into the ground; her knee slammed hard into the paving and she let out a yell of pain as she rolled, coming to a halt in an ungainly sprawl. For a second the world seemed to rock around her, the constant grey blurring the road and the sky into one. She lay on her side for a couple of seconds, pain flashing up and down her leg and her chest and her head with each breath.

"Shit," she gasped. She tried to push herself onto her hands and knees. Her head felt heavy. Her arms shook with the effort, and when she tried to get to her feet her left knee sent a deep spike of pain sparking up her leg. She cried out in pain again and slumped back onto her knees, tears pricking at the edges of her eyes, her breaths coming in harsh ragged gasps. Whatever resolve she had to go on faltered away.

That's it. I'm done.This whole day, this whole month, was a mess. She wasn't going anywhere. What was she even here for? She couldn't remember. She looked up, looking for something she could use to support her weight: a tree, a rock or something to grab onto...the faint outline of a sign a few metres away from her caught her eye. She squinted through the rain, just about managing to make out the thick dark words written on them.

Welcome to Whiteridge Bay.

The City of Dreams. Her mum. Their inside jokes, her warm laughter, the distance between them now...she was so, so close to fixing everything. Hope surged through her, smothering the pain in her knee. Somehow, she managed to find the energy to rise. "C'mon, get up," she said under her breath. Just one more stretch. One last push, and everything else would fall into place...

She didn't know where the boat was, but she followed the outline of the ocean peeking out between the roofs of the houses around her, looking out for the brown signs that indicated tourist attractions. She could see spindly masts in the distance, blotted out by the rain. That must be the harbour over there. A second later she caught sight of the sign: 'Boat tours to Holywell Island'.

The huge clock on the clock tower showed twenty past seven as she dashed past it, heading for the little shack at the edge of the water front. By some miracle, she'd made it. She stumbled to the entry booth, windswept and rain-drenched, breathing hard.

"I'd like...to go...to the rock," she gasped, leaning on the counter for support. She was aware she probably looked a mess, bedraggled and exhausted, but at this point in time she really didn't care. "Please," she added, as an afterthought.

The woman behind the glass raised her finely plucked eyebrows in surprise, and then an odd note of pity crept into her expression.

"I'm really sorry," she said. "But...that's impossible."

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