“I know.” I sigh and pull back. “Okay, put it on me. The world’s most expensive medical-alert bracelet.”

He fastens the cord around me, fussing with its placement on my wrist. I look at his long eyelashes and the tanned angular face that’s so intent on me. To the rest of the world, Misha shows an arrogant self-confidence and a sardonic sense of humour. The people he lets into his inner circle know him for a loyal and brilliant friend, and he’s been wonderful with my epilepsy.

I didn’t grow up with it. I rarely even got a headache until I was twenty-four. Then, three years ago, I took the stairs at my flat too quickly. I missed a step and fell down two flights, and everything changed. I fractured my skull, and although I recovered, I had something new to deal with. Epilepsy.

At first, I struggled with the diagnosis, but then I rallied and applied myself to the condition the way I’ve done with everything in my life. I’m an optimistic person—my glass is always two-thirds full. Misha once described me as relentlessly cheerful. Therefore, I read everything I could about the condition. I cut out drinking and smoking. I started to walk everywhere and stopped swimming, which I’d lost my love affair with when I realised I could actually drown. I’d spent most of my early twenties in clubs, but I stopped going because late nights and little sleep are triggers too.

My new lifestyle and finding the right mix of medication gradually began to work, and the turns eased off until they were non-existent. I felt happy, good about my chances for conquering the worst of my condition. I was coming up to a full year without a turn, which meant I could drive again rather than walking or busing everywhere. Then one day, eight months ago, I had a turn in a supermarket. Over the next several months, I began having more and more, and now I’m having one or two a day again.

I push that worry away and smile at my best friend. “Thank you for bringing the bracelet,” I say softly. “I know that’s the real reason you jettisoned work, and you shouldn’t have.”

He grins. His teeth are white and even, and his smile contains its usual sardonic edge. “For you, anything,” he says and nudges me. “Can’t have any harm come to my flatmate.”

“Yes, who would pay the mortgage?” I say lightly. “You’d really struggle if my massive wages petered out.”

“You council employees. Always earning the big bucks.”

“The only exposure we’d have to big bucks is if a male deer ran through the fucking building.”

Misha laughs, and I hug him tight.

“I’ll see you tonight,” I say.

He nods. “I’ll pick you up outside.”

“That’s out of your way, Misha,” I immediately protest.

He shrugs. “You’re here. Therefore, it’s in my way.”

* * *