Laura looks around the room as if for the first time. Imagine emerging from a void into the shock of this singular space. A blur of moving figures, fixed shapes going in and out of focus, metal and white linen and digital numbers blinking green. Conversations among staff—lives going on as normal—and the realisation that you are the centre of everything and you are nothing, and it matters that you can think but what you think does not matter. Eyes but no faces. Arms without hands. An occasional laugh, the burr of a phone, the gush of water from a tap. Low-pitched emissions from machines. A persistent, terrible pain, source unknown, suddenly raging violent, until it releases and you drift, carried along, fade-in-fade-out, and you know there’s someone by you, someone you love, but you cannot speak and you should know why but you don’t, and where are you? What are you?

Mere speculation. She has no idea what Cooper is feeling. But it’s not difficult to guess what he would want to know.

Cooper …? she ventures.

A minuscule movement of his head. He’s listening.

She tells him where he is. She tells him why. And she tells him his Avril is OK.

She will not tell him that love is as fragile as a butterfly, that everything disintegrates, nothing lasts.

~

A young woman arrives with what looks like a tub of sewing materials. She introduces herself as Tara and shows Laura a sample of fabric for the pressure suit Cooper will wear twenty-three hours a day for more than a year, perhaps several years.

Laura blanches, and points to the door of the ICU; she doesn’t want to have this conversation in front of Cooper.

It looks like lycra, she says in a low voice.

You’re right, Mrs Ellery. Tara holds up the swatch, lays it across Laura’s arm. Feel it. A nylon–lycra blend. Very soft, but strong. I use silk thread to stitch the pieces so everything’s smooth, no irritations.

Laura glances over at Cooper’s dressings, which protect the newly growing skin knitting itself between the spray-on cells.

Tara guesses what she’s thinking. The grafts are delicate, but soon they’ll have taken well enough for the pressure suit, and it will help to keep the tissue pliable and smooth.

Isn’t it painful?

Getting it on and off is, yes, but he’ll have extra meds for that. And once it’s on, and he’s used to it, he won’t feel comfortable without it. She smiles at Laura’s disbelieving face. Honestly. It’s what they say. Every burns patient I’ve worked with.

How long before he starts wearing the suit?

After I take his measurements, it’s about four days to make it. Then it’s up to the team to say when he’s ready.