‘Yes,’ the patient snaps, irritated. ‘I need to go to sleep.’

I step into the corridor. I can just leave, I tell myself. That isn’t unreasonable. Maybe Dr Prince doesn’t want visitors, especially me. Plus, it is two o’clock in the morning. Perhaps I could just give him a wave, call out, ‘Hope you get better soon’, and make a quick exit.

Then I notice that his door’s closed. Well, that makes things easier. I can just leave and he’ll never see me walking away.

I’m still hovering outside the door, feeling foolish, when the nurse appears.

‘Thanks for doing that,’ she says.

‘No problem,’ I say, trying to conceal my interest in Dr Prince’s room. Nurses are the gatekeepers to patients, particularly patients who work as surgeons in the hospital. There’s no way she would allow me to see him.

‘Ah, I just better jot something in the patient’s chart,’ I lie, gesturing to the room I’ve exited.

The nurse shrugs and continues up the corridor.

When she’s gone, I step over to Dr Prince’s door and take a deep breath. I tap on the door lightly and give it a little push. It swings open and I poke my head into the room.

Dr Prince is still standing up, preoccupied with his IV pole. When he sees me, he looks surprised, but not horrified. He doesn’t look angry, just a bit … startled.

I don’t blame him. I’m feeling pretty startled myself.

‘Um, hi,’ I say quickly. ‘Ah, I saw you before and I just wanted to, ah, see if you need any medication charted before I go—like sleeping tablets or painkillers or … something.’

I’m pleased with this sentence. Now he can politely decline, I can leave, and we can both go back to struggling through the rest of the night, and the rest of our separate lives.

‘Or, you know, champagne,’ I say, laughing. I immediately regret it. What’s wrong with me? What kind of a joke is that? The last time he and I drank champagne together he ended up here. God, I’m such an idiot.

‘No, I think I’m all right,’ he says.

It’s strange to see him wearing a blue patient gown, like, well, a real patient.

He is a real patient, I remind myself. Being a doctor doesn’t preclude you from being a patient. Moron.

He doesn’t look so different from when I saw him last—just a bit tired.

I’m about to make my excuses and leave when he says, ‘Do you want to sit down?’

‘Um …’ I don’t know what to say. ‘Ah, okay.’

He shuffles around the small room and sits down on the bed.

‘Do you mind if I sit on your bed too?’ I ask timidly.