I still wish I’d put my contacts in this morning.

I adjust the glasses, my hair and my composure, then pick up Susan’s file and head out to introduce myself.

‘Knock, knock,’ I say, peering around her faded, harlequin curtains before squeezing through a gap. ‘Good morning, how are you feeling today?’ I smooth out the fabric, joining the gaps to protect her privacy. I flick through her notes, comparing them to the chart on her bed. Susan faces the opposite direction. Her head is a mass of silver-grey hair that shines as if fine threads of platinum are running through it. It’s cropped neatly into the nape of her neck. Tidy. Out of the way.

‘I’m Kat, the ward sister,’ I say, then feel like I’ve jumped the gun. ‘Well, acting ward sister. Three days a week, starting today. All the other days I’m just a regular nurse.’ Though her eyes remain closed, Susan slowly turns her face towards me. She doesn’t look fifty-six, I suppose. Though I’m not sure what I expect fifty-six to look like. Certainly not plump and, through the bruising on her left side, fresh-faced. Almost youthful. No hard paper rounds here. ‘I’m Kat seven days a week though,’ I joke, then wish I hadn’t as she tries to open her closed eyes, managing only one, the other closed and swollen. Perhaps that’s why my attempt at humour goes unacknowledged. I don’t suppose I’d be feeling all that perky under the circumstances either. I smile my well-practised bedside sympathy smile: head to one side, a gentle eye blink and a nod. It’s a skill learned in week one of your training; unless, that is, you’re a doctor. ‘I’ve been on holiday, actually. Well, sort of… but don’t tell anyone else that, eh.’ I half smile but Susan doesn’t respond. I step closer to try to read her face. ‘This is my first day back. I expect all that lounging around will be a distant memory by six o clock tonight.’ I leave a gap for her to comment. Just in case. ‘Has everything been okay?’ I say eventually. ‘Since you came in, I mean. Are we looking after you?’

Nothing.

‘Of course we have, we’ve got a great team here. How was breakfast?’

Still nothing.

I move the table that straddles her bed, noting the barely touched cereal in her bowl. ‘Are you in any pain or discomfort at all?’ I take her wrist, read her machine, scribble a note of pulse and oxygen, then rewrite them so they’re legible. ‘We can organise more pain relief if we need to. You just say if you…’ I stumble over the clumsy suggestion. ‘I mean…’

Hooking the clipboard back on the end of her bed, I rest against it and take a deep breath. Though her eyes are swollen, there’s an intensity to her look. I search my mind for something to say, something that shows I’m the right person to be in charge of the ward. In charge of her care. ‘Your consultant, Mr Barnes, will be on his rounds shortly. He’ll no doubt go through it all with you then, but, well, all things considered, you may be with us for a few weeks yet.’ She winces, moving her arm slightly. ‘Careful,’ I say, helping her to readjust. She’s got tiny wrists, almost childlike. She’s not frail, just petite. ‘Your arm’s going to be a fabulous patchwork of bruising,’ I say. She looks down at it, then up to the ceiling.