The young woman stared down at her hands, which she had folded across her lap. “Do I have to tell you who I am? Do I have to?”

Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi exchanged glances across the room.

“It would be better if you did,” said Mma Ramotswe gently. “We do not speak to other people about what we hear in this room, do we, Mma Makutsi?”

Mma Makutsi confirmed that they did not. But there was still some hesitation from the young woman.

“Look, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We have heard everything that there is to be heard. There is no need to be ashamed.”

The young woman gave a start. “But I am not ashamed, Mma,” she protested. “I have done nothing wrong. I am not ashamed.”

“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“You see, I am frightened,” said the young woman. “I am not ashamed; I am frightened.”

For a few moments, the young woman’s words hung in the air. Mma Ramotswe sat at her desk, her elbows resting comfortably on its surface, her shoes slipped off, allowing the cool of the polished concrete floor to chill the soles of her feet. She thought: This is the second time in two days in which I have heard these words. First there was her cousin at Mokolodi, and now there was this woman. Fear might be talked about in the clear light of day, when people were going about their business, and when the sun was strong in the sky, and yet it was nonetheless chilling for that. She looked at the woman before her, this nurse who worked in a world of white walls and disinfectant, and who was, in spite of that, preyed upon by something dark and dangerous. Fear was like that; it worked from the inside and was indifferent to what was going on outside.

Mma Ramotswe signalled to Mma Makutsi. The kettle needed to be switched on and tea made. Whatever was troubling this young woman, the making and drinking of tea would help to take her mind off her fears. Tea was like that. It just worked.

“You need not be frightened here,” said Mma Ramotswe gently. “We are your friends here. You need not be frightened.”

The young woman looked at her for a moment and then she spoke. “My name is Boitelo,” she said. “I am Boitelo Mampodi.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded encouragingly. “I am glad that you have told me,” she said. “Now, Mma, we can have some tea together and you can tell me what is frightening you. You can take your time. Nobody is in a hurry in this place. You can take as long as you like to tell me what this trouble is. Do you understand?”

Boitelo nodded. “I’m sorry, Mma,” she said. “I hope that you did not think that I distrusted you.”

“I did not think that,” said Mma Ramotswe.