Katya’s text is an invitation to explore.

My heart explodes in all directions and my hand is shaking as I type the address into my phone and follow the pulsing blue dot round the corner.

A sign nailed to a tree confirms what she told me last night. Spreepark: verboten. No entry. And again, in English underneath: this theme park is closed.

I finger the cap of the black marker pen in my pocket. A trickle of sweat itches between my shoulderblades.

I don’t have to go in if I don’t want to. I can just go home. I can just be the same boring version of myself I was in Gateshead. Manchester. Blackpool. Aberdeen. Poland. Sheffield.

Why did I think this Summer would be any different?

The blue dot pulses, waiting for me to decide who I am.

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