Nurse holds her hand out. ‘Your phone?’

‘How will I make contact with my son?’

‘No contact with the outside world for two weeks, except in the case of an emergency.’

I get up off the bed. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

‘I understand this is all a bit of a shock, but bear in mind if you leave now you may not be allowed access to your young son.’

Seriously? I hand my phone over, instantly bereft. Nursey tells me that the next twenty-four hours will be the most intense. There’ll be no expectation on me to do anything, bar eat and sleep and take my Librium. I don’t need that shit. I’m not that bad.

‘Lunch will be brought to you shortly.’

‘I don’t eat meat.’

‘Well, that’s a shame.’

Why? Why’s that a shame, Nursey Nurse? Don’t you know the torture we inflict on those poor innocent creatures? My mouth is full of the taste of their fear. The looping starts: bushfires burning up koalas and kangaroos, monkeys being injected with human viruses, polar bears in shopping malls for selfies, dogs being bred in cages over and over until their wombs fall out, intrusive thoughts, images, crowding.

‘Just settle yourself in here, and I’ll be back with a sandwich and your first dose. Best to eat something first.’ Nursey Nurse’s voice is a welcome interruption.

I sit on my allocated bed, fingering the synthetic cover, which sends sparks of electricity to my fingertips. My body is experiencing a turboboost of energy and speed, yet, beyond the incessant worrying of my mind and thumb and forefinger, is incapable of moving. I smell sulphur, nothing left of me but charred remains. Spontaneous combustion! Suitably dramatic and high-pitched. Pity Tommy couldn’t be here to enjoy the spectacle. His anxious face looms large, gains substance and settles itself around me like a cloak. I am wearing his worry.

The rain is falling gently, little blurred waterfalls sliding down the window. I allow my focus to soften. Has anything ever seemed so lovely? Water surrounding me, holding me. A heavy kind of apathy claims me, laying me down with the weight of it. Tip, tap, tip, God’s own fingertips, softly first, then building in intensity, until the rain tapping against the pane sounds like artillery fire. The sky is chucking hard pebbles against the glass. These balls of ice are worrying, a sign of punishment from above. I think I remember being clobbered the day of my mother’s funeral but couldn’t be sure. So much of that day was filtered through an unfocused lens, though the sensation of being stoned by the Man Above lingers. Bold girl.

Then: a picture of Tommy, lying on the couch, his tiny feet swimming in my socks, tummy gurgling; Herbie and himself curled into each other, talking in their own language; his little body rigid in that stranger’s arms on the beach; my hand reaching out to smack him; my overwhelming need for him; him pushing me away and the dangerous pain of that; his eyes, sparkling, reflecting the fire from the burning grill pan. Beeootiful, Yaya. Hot and slinky like the sun. What if I hadn’t woken up? A sea of flames engulfing him.