‘You must be my intern,’ he says mildly, holding out his hand. ‘I’m Jack Prince.’

I wonder whether I should apologise for my homicidal rant against the Joker, his surgical colleague, but since he hasn’t brought it up I decide it would be wiser not to mention it.

‘Katarina,’ I say, shaking his hand. ‘My friends call me Kitty, though.’

I’m not sure why I feel the need to share this. The Shark barely knows I have a name, after all.

Dr Prince nods.

‘I mean, I don’t need to know your nickname,’ I say quickly. ‘Katarina is a bit of a mouthful, that’s all. Obviously, I’ll just call you Dr Prince.’

I don’t know what’s happening. My frontal lobe has hyper-activated to a point where complete drivel is spewing out of my mouth. I can’t believe I tease Winnie about being a hypochondriac. Clearly she’s right: a brain tumour can strike at any moment. I need an MRI urgently.

Dr Prince is looking at me with an expression that for the life of me I can’t interpret.

‘I don’t really have a nickname,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘People usually just call me Jack.’

‘Not short for Jackson, I guess,’ I say, unnecessarily.

His eyebrows knit together. ‘No, just Jack.’

‘Oh,’ I say.

‘So, I suppose we should start the round.’ He gestures towards the patient rooms.

I jump to attention. ‘I’ll get the charts,’ I say, quickly walking to the alcove where the patient files are kept.

I return with charts in hand, relieved that I’ve managed to do something successfully, and hand them to him.

‘So how are you finding neurosurgery?’ he asks.

‘It’s all right,’ I say half-heartedly. ‘I mean, good. No, it’s good.’

He raises his eyebrows.

‘I like it,’ I add unconvincingly as we walk towards the first patient.

‘Have you been into theatre yet?’

I shake my head. ‘Not yet … I went all the time as a medical student, though,’ I say, ‘and I found it so fascinating.’

He looks at me, interested. ‘What did you find fascinating about it?’

I consider this. I’m about to make a joke, to keep things light, but for some reason he makes me want to be honest. ‘It’s hard to articulate,’ I say slowly. ‘The whole idea of taking away someone’s consciousness, of cutting through their skin, to have that kind of power and control, is just, well …’ I stop, feeling a bit foolish. ‘Blood and knives and power and pain and mercy and magic,’ I say, repeating the words I’d used to Estelle yesterday in the cafeteria. ‘It’s all there, under those bright lights.’

His eyes crinkle. ‘You’re a poet,’ he says. ‘My intern is a poet.’

I laugh. ‘I wanted to be a writer,’ I admit, forgetting myself.

‘Why do you say it in the past tense? Once a writer, always a writer.’