Jack doesn’t answer. On the monitor above his head, the line showing the rhythm of his heart is steady as it should be, but Jack can’t shake a sense of dread, that the regular rhythm is no more than a diversion, and that an enormous change is waiting in the wings.

That night, alone in the dark, Jack can’t sleep, probably because he isn’t alone at all. Even from the luxury of a bay to himself he can sense other bodies nearby, occasionally hearing their snuffling and snoring. It isn’t truly dark either, with fluorescent light leaking from the nurses’ station, where from time to time the night shift gathers to chat and keep the patients awake.

But despite physical evidence to the contrary, Jack feels alone, and he senses the darkness deepening. He decides to keep his eyes closed so as not to see it, but with them closed he senses something else, someone standing watching him from the end of the bed.

He opens his eyes. No one is there, but the sense that someone’s close by won’t go away.

‘Dora?’

He glances up at the machine tracking his heart – all the lines look normal – and closes his eyes again against the light he doesn’t want.

As soon as his eyes close, he senses again that someone is there, alongside the bed now, almost touching his face. Maybe one of the nurses has come to take his blood pressure, and he waits to hear her speak, but no one tries to wake him. Lying perfectly still, he listens, but if someone is there, their breathing is silent. After a while, he finds he doesn’t mind them being there. He’s finally easing into sleep, tempting himself to drift off by replaying memories he loves: the first lambs of spring running on the home field; Dora on their wedding day; the day Matt first rode a bike; happy young Evan and himself hand in hand, carrying their fishing net down to the stream.

When the pain hits, it’s a harder blow even than in the bathroom, an explosion in his chest which takes away his breath and numbs his arms. There’s a moment he knows he should press his red button, but the thought of doing so is transitory and floats away.

Dora. His last thought is the certainty that it’s Dora waiting at his bedside, and he’s grateful that she’s there. Her presence soothes his strong objection that his time has come too soon.

2.43 a.m., and at Ainsclough Top the phone is ringing, heralding bad news, just as it was the night Evan was lost. Befuddled with sleep, Matt hurries down the stairs and grabs the receiver before the caller rings off. As he listens to what the nurse is saying, he’s looking at the photograph of Jack and Evan, his younger, fitter father and his happy, smiling son.