Susan picks up my phone. She types, then, handling my phone like it’s made of glass, passes it to me. ‘I would love to meet him. When and where? I’ll be there. X.’ She hasn’t sent it. It’s a draft. And I don’t agree. I don’t like it. And yet, as Susan holds my gaze, I press send. The sound of a tiny swoosh signals it has left my inbox, and Susan nods. Then she reaches to the back of her book and takes out a crisp white envelope. In her handwriting, it is clearly and cleanly marked: ‘Mr James Grey’. There’s an address on it, somewhere in the Lake District. Ambleside. She has perfectly placed the first-class stamp in the corner. A precision I don’t share. I turn it over in my hand. ‘Who is this?’ I ask, holding it out to her. She pushes it back to my chest, then leans back in her bed, holding the book. She takes a final look in my direction before closing her eyes again. Within seconds, her breathing softens. I watch her, realising that the woman beneath the bruises and plaster is emerging and she’s not how I remembered her. Before, she was somehow hidden. I can’t figure out what I can see now, or whether I was blind to it before. Or even how it makes me feel. She lets out a breath of sleep. Her eyes flicker and her hands relax, letting go of the book. I take it from her, placing it carefully on the side, and look again at the envelope.

‘Is this to be sent, Susan?’ I say out loud to her tiny, sleeping frame. ‘And who’s James?’

‘Best post it, eh, love,’ interrupts a patient over the way, seemingly having watched our whole encounter. ‘I saw her put a stamp on it earlier. She must want it gone. Do her a favour, and let her get some rest, that’s what they said, love.’

‘Post it?’ I check.

‘Why else would she write it?’

‘I guess so. Will you tell her I have it? That I’ll post it tomorrow if I don’t hear different, okay?’

‘Aye,’ she says. ‘Will do.’

I pass Kat’s office by the nurses’ station as I leave. The door is closed and I pause for a second, wondering whether to knock and see her. But she might not even be in, and I don’t know what I’d say anyway. How do I explain why I’m back, or what I might be thinking? The sick feeling returns. She knows things I don’t talk about. A stranger who’s drawn out secrets without lies. I’ve had a reprieve. What more could she unpick if I saw her? I can’t do this at anyone’s pace but my own. I hurry out of the door as another message comes through: Mum’s instructions to meet her and Derek at a wine bar by the Chinese. I fold Susan’s letter into my back pocket and disappear before Kat finds me here.