Avril is surprised to see Laura turn the corner from the car park in the grainy half-light, muffled up in wool. Early. She has a Landcare recycling bag over her shoulder and her hands are full. Avril grinds the newly lit cigarette under her heel, flicks it into a bin and waits, shivering. Calm, calm. Hands in pockets to keep them still.

Morning, Laura. That’s what she intended to say. Instead:

The neurosurgeon’s just been with him. They’re doing more tests. They really think he could be coming out of it.

Laura tries to put an arm around her but is too laden.

Sweetie, grab these before I drop them, will you?

Avril takes two bakery bags.

I know, I know, Laura says. We just have to stay positive. Come on, let’s go up and talk.

Avril peers into one of the bags. Chocolate croissants. Then the smell of coffee hits her. Cappuccino. The real stuff.

She falls in beside Laura.

It’s good news.

Avril glances at her. Laura sounds emphatic but her face lets her down.

There’s an argument going on in the foyer between a tired-looking security guard and a drunk with a cigarette. They skirt the scuffle, head towards the lifts in silence.

~

She waits outside the ICU while Laura pulls on the whites and covers her hair. She can see Coop from here, sees the way Laura goes to kiss him on the forehead, then checks herself—this same instinctive action neither of them can seem to stop. They can’t kiss Cooper, no question of it; imagine the risk of infection if they did.

Avril turns away. Laura’s back is to her but it’s unbearable even to imagine the momentary anguish on her face when the reality of Cooper’s condition descends on her again, the knowledge of what is yet to come. It’s like watching herself, that renewed distress, every time she walks into the ICU.

Laura said she would say hello to Coop and then meet her in the lounge. A brief flirtation with the possibility of a cigarette, but no, there isn’t time to go downstairs again. She picks up Laura’s bags and takes a sip of coffee. Still scaldingly hot.

~

Avril perches on the edge of the couch, hunched over the table. She brushes flakes of pastry from her fingers onto a serviette, then folds it in half, in half again.

It isn’t rational but I just keep thinking: it’s not time, he isn’t strong enough. Gut instinct.

Well, normally I’d never underestimate instinct, not about someone you love. There’s something compelling, an antenna thing, a sort of wiring. But … Laura reaches over, squeezes her arm. But they told us from the start: it’s unpredictable. Only Cooper knows when it’s time.