The staff prefer only one visitor at a time, but Avril hasn’t let go of Laura’s hand since she came in. The tests show Cooper is responding to stimuli as he should, there is no mental impairment, and in spite of all the problems ahead, the relief, the joy, of knowing that is so profound that no-one’s thinking about rules today.

When Avril finally takes a break, Laura moves in close to the pillow. Welcome back, my boy. It’s all she can manage, this broken benediction.

Movement beneath the dressings on his face, a faint gurgle from his damaged throat. And it’s like she can read it already, this new body language, these signs, this pain.

To distract him, she tells him about the Monarchs, almost ready, now, to be released; about the surprising cat who has taken a shine to her; about Gideon’s cooking, which puts hers to shame. Not that that would be hard. You remember Gideon? You met him once, briefly, when he returned the can of two-stroke. I think you two would get along.

Martine wheels in a trolley and Laura moves to the end of the bed to get out of her way. There’s a whole tray of medications, and Laura wants to know what they’re for.

This one’s slow-release methadone, Martine says, depressing the syringe into Cooper’s IV. He’ll be on this all the time, for neuropathic pain. She looks around at Laura. From nerve trauma? Nerves take a long time to regenerate. It’s a painful process.

Laura watches Cooper’s face, wondering how much is penetrating the narcotic haze of his sedation. He knows she’s there, he can hear her, but do pain and all the time and nerve damage register? As explanations of what he’s feeling?

Anti-inflammatories, Martine continues, emptying another syringe. And steroids to help soften the burn tissue. A half hour before every treatment, we’ll be giving him ketamine, too, to help him handle those. Physio, dressings—it’s a more intense type of pain.

Avril slips back into the room and sits beside her.

Martine pats the edge of the bed. OK, there, Cooper?

A low moan, gut-wrenching.

Laura glances sideways. Avril’s face is the mirror of everything Laura is feeling. She looks like she’s about to weep.

Martine carries on briskly, tidying away the plastic packaging, dropping used syringes in a special container, but her voice is sympathetic. Look, I know how hard this is, but although he’s conscious now, he’s still heavily sedated. He’s not fully aware. Twilight, they call it, a kind of half dreaming.

Another groan from Cooper, and Avril grips Laura’s wrist.

Dreaming? Laura thinks. Nightmare, more like.

Avril touches the pillow with her other hand. How long before he can talk?