I nod, and then realize he can’t see me. ‘OK,’ I say. It comes out strangled, more a wail than a word. More tears follow. They fall easily now.

The ticket lady starts to make her way down the carriage. ‘Tickets, passes and railcards!’

‘I have to go now,’ Dad says. ‘I’ll speak to the doctor, then head straight to the train station. Are you with Elle?’

I swallow before replying; it’s like gulping down a stone.

‘Tickets, passes and railcards!’

‘Saff?’

‘Yes, I’m with her.’ I wipe snot on my sleeve.

‘Good. Not long now, I promise.’

I put the phone down and stare ahead at the chair in front of me. A piece of mint-green chewing gum is lodged between the back of the seat and the tray.

‘Tickets, passes and railcards!’ the woman repeats, marching down the aisle with purpose. When she reaches us Elle whispers something to her.

She glances at me before nodding at Elle.

‘Come on,’ Elle says, grabbing my arm and my things. We crawl to the back of the train, my vision blurred from the tears. She slides a door open, and it’s only when I walk through and feel the heat that I realize she’s lead me to the posh carriage.

No one’s in here, just us.

‘Is your mum . . . ?’ she asks, trailing off. ‘Is she . . . ?’

‘She’s in a coma.’ I whisper the words, testing them out on my tongue.

And that’s when I know things will never be the same again.

Chapter 3

The next day we’re at the hospital I was born in. We couldn’t see Mum last night because the doctors were busy operating on her brain. For some reason, when I imagine it happening, all I can think of is that old-school game, Operation, where you have to remove different body parts without setting off the buzzer.

They called Dad this morning to let him know how it went, and to say that we would be able to visit Mum in the afternoon. So, I guess, the buzzer never went off. It’s not GAME OVER.

‘She’s in the intensive care unit,’ Dad explains, leading the way.

We follow the yellow line on the wall like Dorothy and the Scarecrow on their way to Oz. Except, instead of the Wizard, we’re going to see Mum.

My mouth is all dry and I feel sick. It doesn’t help that everything smells like antiseptic.

Still, we walk and walk and walk, until we turn a corner where a reception desk sits in the semi-darkness, surrounded by rooms.

‘James and Safiya Fisher to see Aminah Al-Adwani,’ Dad says.

Aminah. I forget that’s her name sometimes. I’m so used to her being Mum.

‘Are you a relation?’ the nurse asks. I look down at his badge and read the name Edward Hussein.