His voice was hoarse today, his breathing shallow. A silence. Then the sound of footsteps and the cold touch of fingertips on Hamza’s inner wrist. The whip of an arm yanking a cuff over a watch face. Silent counting. A calculation. The fingertips disappeared, leaving only the sting of another’s touch on his skin. He heard the rasping of the silver chain as the Doctor picked up the compass from the bed, held it in his hands. Dragged the chair towards Hamza and sat.

‘I know you can hear me.’

Hamza felt the strangeness of having someone else so near. The Doctor’s chest was noisy, as if his haste along the endless, featureless corridors had unsettled it. ‘I can’t sleep, thinking of you here. Please, Hamza, you have to eat.’ Hamza lay unmoving. ‘Those sores are getting worse.’ The creak of the chair as the Doctor leant closer. The Doctor searched his face for a response. There was none. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘Listen to me. They won’t force you to eat, Hamza. If you die, you’re one less problem for them.’

There was something in this man’s voice that made Hamza think of his father. A silence before the sound of his breathing returned once again.

Hamza had been moved. For years. From Syria to Oman, from Oman onwards. Moved and moved so that he had become so far removed from where he had been, who he had been, that he no longer knew himself. Cells. Trucks. Boats. Each country complicating his story. Travelling further and further until he had almost forgotten himself. There had been other medics, too, who were kind enough, but none like this one. This one was older. Perhaps that was it. He was not a military man either. This base seemed smaller, more remote. After so many years, he had, it seemed, reached the end of the line.