He had been quiet at first, rocking slightly in the passenger seat, eyes fixed somewhere past the window.

Then he started talking.

“The voices aren’t as loud now,” he said. “The medication’s working. She said I’m one of her success stories.” He said it quickly, like it mattered to get it out properly.

“They’re still there though,” he added. “Not as loud. Still saying the same things.”

“What do they say?” she asked.

“That I’m no good,” he said. “That I never have been.”

“You know they’re lying, right?” she said.

He paused.

Rocked once. Then again.

“Mm.”

He shifted in his seat, rocking a little harder.

“There’s about six of them,” he said. “Some men, some women. Some tell me to hurt people. Some tell me to hurt myself. Some tell me to pack my bags and run away.”

“I used to listen,” he said. “Not so much now. Sometimes I tell them to shut up. Sometimes music helps.” He let out a small laugh. “I’d probably be lonely without them.”

The road opened out into countryside, long stretches of hedgerows and sky. A bird stood in the middle of the road ahead, too big to ignore.

She slowed.

At the last second it lifted, wings wide, filling the windscreen as it came straight towards them.

He ducked. Properly ducked.

Then laughed. She laughed too.

“Don’t know why I did that,” he said. “We’re in a car.” He paused. “Can’t blame that on the voices.”

They drove on.

“Are we still getting the burger?” he asked.

She nodded.

He folded his legs underneath him, settling back into the seat, rocking again. After a while, he spoke.

“The voices think you’re alright,” he said. “Not like the others.”

She smiled.

“They say you listen,” he added. “They say you’re funny.”

He looked down at his hands. “People get bored of talking to me sometimes.”

“What’s not to like?” she said. “You’re a bit of a chatterbox.”

He laughed. “Mm.”

For a while, neither of them said anything.

The hedgerows thinned. The road opened out.

His rocking slowed.

He looked out of the window.

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