My bed sighs under my weight, and as I turn off my bedside lamp I think how the nurses have no idea what they’re talking about. It’s not what’s already happened that keeps me rushing, terrified, into her room at night. It’s the invisible bomb I hear ticking over our heads, the precious seconds we have left together that are starting to run out, like water through cupped hands. It’s the horrific promise of what I know will come. That one day the locks will slide back, the handle will slowly start to turn, and then there will follow those practiced, determined footsteps and no matter how fast I run to her, how much I plead, there is nothing I can do to save us both.

1

Cara

I hold my finger on the bell for number 52 Woodgreen Avenue for longer than is probably polite. The ringing is urgent, but that’s good, I want them to know I’m in a rush. My Monday lunchtime shift at the Ship starts in half an hour.

I imagine Grace inside, her little owl face swiveling towards the noise in a way that makes her seem so much younger than most seventeen-year-olds, her thin arms somehow maneuvering her chair down the wide corridor towards me, Meg in her uniform of slippers, leggings, and oversized T-shirt padding behind her, a kindly, dependable guard dog. “Just coming!”

I nudge my leg against the tote bag full of summer clothes—washed, ironed, and folded—ready for Meg and Grace. Mum and her friends have been collecting them for weeks.

Come on.

I take my phone out of the pocket of my ripped jeans, look at the blank screen, and put it back again. The paint on Meg and Grace Nichols’s house is fresh and gives off a chemical tang in the early June sun. Naturally, they went for pink. Mum said the Wishmakers, the charity who adapted the house for Grace’s wheelchair, repainted last month. Next door, the red paint on Mum’s woodwork is peeling away like burnt skin.

Where are they?

I press the doorbell again. They’re always in. Maybe Meg is helping Grace in the bathroom? Or perhaps they’re in Grace’s bedroom, Meg changing Grace’s feeding tube—I think she has to change it every week. Last Christmas, Grace lifted her Santa Claus sweater to show me the new hole in her stomach. It looked like a tiny eye socket with the eyeball plucked out. It seemed bottomless, Grace a doll with all her stuffing pulled out.

“Weird, isn’t it?” she said, looking straight at me. I shrugged and turned away so she couldn’t see how queasy I felt.

I glance at my phone again. Maybe I should just leave the bag here on the doorstep? I could write a note? But I know Mum will be pissed off if I don’t give them the clothes in person. She’s been saving them for me to bring over, like it’s a special treat. Mum visits Meg and Grace a couple of times a week, sometimes coming home dewy-eyed. It’s as if, for her, spending half an hour with Meg and Grace is some kind of religious experience. She says Grace always asks her what I’ve been up to, if I’ve been dating, that kind of thing. Mum is always trying to get me to visit them. I tell her I’ve been too busy this year, retaking my A-levels, working at the pub, and dealing with the breakup from Chris. I finished my exams two days ago and I’ve run out of excuses, so here I am. The truth is, I never know what to say to Grace these days. It feels mean to tell her about my life—my plans for university, how I’m going to get out of Cornwall as soon as I can, that I’m saving for a big trip to India next year—when her big weekly event is a trip down the beach with her mum.