I look back at Mum. I want her to open her eyes and see it. I want her to watch the sunset with me.

There’s a chair next to Mum’s bed and I settle into it.

I lean into my pocket and pull out . . . the perfume. It’s not here. The cushion and blanket I brought on the second visit are, but not the perfume.

I check my backpack, but nothing’s there. My stomach drops. Where is it?

That’s when I remember that I left it in the bedside drawer in Mum’s old ward during my last visit. I check the drawers in here. It’s not in either of them. I check under the bed and in the little cupboard of spare pillows. I check every part of the room until I’m definitely sure it’s not in here.

I can’t visit Aminah without the perfume; I can’t watch the next memory and unlock her bedroom door. What if Mum really is improving because I’ve been playing the game? And what if this makes all the good that’s happening turn bad?

Without the memories I can’t wake her up.

No, no, no! my brain cries out, but outwardly I try to stay calm.

I can see the reception desk through the narrow glass pane of the hospital door. It sits right across from Mum’s room. There’s a nurse I don’t recognize. I can see the top of her hair, her curly fringe bouncing as she bobs her head.

I run out to her. ‘Excuse me?’ I say.

She holds her hand up to silence me. That’s when I notice she’s on the phone.

I wait, tapping my foot, panic taking over as I hear her speak.

‘Yes, you can find a list of visiting hours on our website. Is there anything else I can do for you?’ Her voice is all friendly and inviting. ‘Yes, of course I can give you a care summary now. Bear with me please, sir.’

She tap, tap, taps on her computer for a moment, all the while pretending I’m not standing there. ‘Thank you for waiting,’ she says in a sing-song voice to whoever is on the phone. The nurse spends another minute talking, and I don’t really know what to do with myself – so I just stand, arms crossed, back against the wall.

Eventually she puts the phone down and I go to address her, but she stands up and leaves the reception area to go into a room across the hall. I watch her lazy steps as if she has all the time in the world.