‘You’ve given your boss a heart attack,’ she says, abruptly turning serious. ‘I’ve killed a patient, and you’ve nearly killed your boss.’ She reaches for the bottle of wine. ‘It’s not really how I saw our first year as doctors panning out,’ she continues. ‘I mean, I always knew it was going to be bad, but I can honestly say that I didn’t predict this.’ She fills her glass, then drains it. ‘Do you have any benzos at your place?’ she asks me, looking desperate.

I’m tempted—Max is on night shift and we all know where his secret stash is—but we do have to go to work the next day. ‘All out, mate,’ I say, feeling bad for both of us, Estelle especially.

She’s putting up a good front, aided by the fact she’s so beautiful it’s hard to see that underneath there’s something wrong. But we’ve been through a lot together, and if anyone can sense that things are awry, I can. I make a vow to myself that no matter how hectic our schedules, we will do a weekly in-person check-in. I will not just text, I decide. Her wellbeing is too important. I will force her to come over or meet her for a coffee or go to her place.

‘Another bottle of the same, thanks,’ I say to the waitress as she comes by.

‘I’ll get you some water too,’ she says, giving us a look.

‘Don’t need water.’ Estelle looks affronted as she enunciates her words carefully in an effort to appear sober.

‘You do realise you’ve got a problem with alcohol,’ a voice says behind me.

I turn around to see the Godfather, still in his scrubs, clearly having just finished work. I feel drunkenly relieved. I can deal with the Godfather.

‘You’re going to pour me one, right?’ he says, instantly sitting down and stretching out his legs. ‘I’ve earned it.’

‘There’s another bottle coming,’ I say, catching the eye of the waitress, who’s staring at the Godfather.

‘I think the waitress wants to have sex with you, mate,’ Estelle whispers, trying to be subtle but failing. It works, in any case, as she heads off to replenish our dwindling supply.

‘Give her my number,’ the Godfather says. ‘She’s cute.’

The Godfather’s had the shift from hell, he tells us. ‘Everyone tonight is just really high on ice,’ he says. ‘Man, we had to shackle at least three people to the bed. It was pretty fucked up.’

Ice is scary, even for the Godfather, who has been exposed to so many recreational drugs that he’s like a walking illegal pharmacy.

‘Speaking of,’ he adds casually, ‘do you guys want some charlie?’

Estelle’s face brightens. ‘Ye—’

‘No!’ I say firmly. ‘Come on, guys! It’s Sunday.’