Logan is struggling to keep up. He hasn’t been sleeping well.

She’s still singing? Rocking?

No, none of that. She’s lucid. Calm.

So, why do you say insane?

A shush, a finger to the lips. They stop at a small scratched window set in a door. The nurse leans towards him and whispers, It’s the things she says, Dr Logan. Very disturbing.

Disturbing, or disturbed?

She swipes her card over the reader and the bolts clunk into their casings.

You’ll see, she says, ushering him in and staying on the hall side of the door as it closes.

April is gazing out of the window. A notebook lies in front of her. He waits to see if she will acknowledge his presence. He cannot tell whether she is aware of him or in a state of reverie. Something has undoubtedly been occurring in the room. Against regulations, and against good sense for a mental patient on remand, April has decorated the wall beside her bed. In pencil, in large hollowed-out capitals, she has written:

LUKE
17:21

For the first time in his life he wishes his knowledge of the Bible stretched further than how many different crayons you needed to colour in a picture of Jesus entering Jerusalem on a donkey. Once out of April’s room he will look it up, but how to remember the numbers? It comes to him savagely: Tom and Flora’s ages when she died. Blessedly, before he can be snagged into tears or mis-breathing, April says, Is it not beautiful, Dr Logan?

He follows her gaze. The low, grubby buildings of the adjoining wing shed their paint eczematically. A disorder of bins cluster around the kitchen door like hungry pets. A large rectangle of lawn in need of mowing and worn away in patches, shaded by an unruly, gangling tree. A sky glowering with undropped rain. Unkempt flowerbeds where a doolally lady in a pale blue nightie is squatting to urinate.

Isn’t what beautiful, April?

She swivels to face him, her eyes full of light.

Everything. Her eyes travel over his face, as though scanning him to include him in her assessment.

Everything?

Yes. Everything.

Nodding as if to say, Yes, even you, Dr Logan, even you are beautiful.

What you’ve written on the wall—

That’s especially beautiful, she says. Especially beautiful. And turns back to the window.

Can I?

Make yourself comfortable, she says, without taking her eyes off the view.

Glancing up at the camera’s fish eye in the corner, he sits primly on the edge of the bed.

Our conversation is being recorded, he says for the sake of legality.

Of course. Everything here is recorded. Going for a shit is recorded.

Can you tell me what happened during the process? he asks.

No, she says simply.

No?

It’s beyond words, Dr Logan. Nodding to herself, confirming with herself. Beyond words.

But you’re feeling – different.

Different. Yes.