They were waiting for the blood results and cultures to tell them what bugs were growing in Anouk’s lungs and which antibiotics she would have to receive intravenously. On the inside of Anouk’s elbow, a wad of cotton secured by transparent tape. Nora, with breath held, carefully peeled the tape back from Anouk’s skin and removed the cotton, which was stained with a perfect, heartbreaking pinprick of brown blood. Nora scrunched the cotton in her fist and tossed it to the garbage bin at the foot of the bed.

‘Why’d you do that?’ asked Red, rubbing his eyes under his glasses.

‘Cotton balls give her the heebie-jeebies.’

‘You could’ve woken her up. She only just stopped coughing.’

‘I didn’t wake her up.’

‘Well.’

A porter passed in the hallway pushing a cart with wheels that squeaked. Some kind of jargon was spoken impassively over an intercom.

More time passed and then a man they knew well, Dr Atulewa, slipped through the gap in the curtain looking worn out but impeccable. Nora had always liked him (hero worship, but so what): the triangular tuck of his silk hankie that matched his tie, the strong cologne that was oak and vanilla and moss. Huge hands, and fingers tapered like fine candles.

‘Hello again, family,’ he said, a whispered and vibrating radio voice. He bent over Anouk and with one elegant finger gently stroked the back of her hand.

‘She’s so tired,’ Nora said.

‘We’ll have to wake her,’ he said, ‘but in a moment.’ His finger stopped moving, but he left it on her hand for one more beat before removing it, as if reading her. He sat on the edge of Anouk’s bed, his knees almost touching Red’s, and bent to a file in his hands. His glasses slipped to the end of his nose and stopped, seemingly on command, just short of the tip. He read Anouk’s results quietly. A new bug, nothing ominous, but one that was resistant to penicillin so they would be going with some kind of macrolide. Nora nodded and Red rubbed his beard. Anouk would likely be in hospital for two weeks. He asked Nora and Red for permission to speak to Anouk about doing a blood gas, not essential for her treatment and quite painful, but imminently helpful for research. The team would be very grateful, he explained, over the rim of his glasses, but would understand completely if Nora and Red declined.

‘Sure,’ said Nora. ‘We can talk to her.’

‘No way,’ said Red.

‘You don’t have to decide tonight,’ said Dr Atulewa, getting up from the bed. He closed the file and tucked it securely under his arm. ‘We’ll have to wake her now, I’m afraid, get this line in.’ He excused himself while Red leaned over Anouk and, with both hands on her shoulders, shook her gently. She shrugged him off. He kissed her forehead, whispered something in her ear. Nora put one hand on Anouk’s shin and nudged it side to side. Anouk kicked and rolled away but soon opened her eyes, dark with anger. Angrier still when they told her it was time to put the intravenous line in her arm.