‘Great, these, aren’t they? These patient stations.’ He taps, checking the wood just like he did at my house: the edge of the kitchen worktop when I made him and David a drink; the door to the boiler cupboard as he diagnosed the problem. The roof of his van as he bid me a final farewell, telling me his brother would be about if I needed anything else. He was a broken soul too, his brother. David. I recognised it straight away. It’s like an invisible badge of honour that only another broken soul can see, or feel. I’m not sure what it was. I didn’t realise just how broken, or even why, but I could see something. I thought I saw it in Rhys, too, but he’s not like his brother. They aren’t the same. Why would they be?

Rhys is still looking at the wooden box beside me, swinging it around on its castors to get a better view. ‘There could be everything you need at your disposal with these things.’ He pulls at the stiff doors to reveal empty shelves, except for a box of tissues beside the spare pack of hygiene gloves, or so the cleaner told me when she offered to unpack my bags. He reaches in and pushes them to the back, his arm lost inside the vast emptiness of a cupboard that should store my belongings. The essentials for my stay.

‘Where’s your bag? I’ll unpack for you before I go.’

Don’t go, I want to say. My emotions fight each other over what I want, what I feel, what I need.

I blink.

‘Your bag?’ he repeats, and I stare at him. Does he wonder why he is here? Does he look at me and think anything? Or feel anything? Or suspect anything? Or is it all just a weird coincidence to him? And which version of the events do I prefer?

‘What?’ he says. ‘What is it?’ He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Have I got something on my face? Is it ketchup? I nailed a bacon cob this morning and haven’t checked in the mirror.’ He reaches back in the cupboard for some tissue. ‘Where is it? Point to it.’ He leans in a little, I can smell him. Not aftershave, or deodorant. Just him. His smell. He wipes his face. ‘That’s me all over, that is,’ he says, checking his face in his phone. What a knob.’ He looks up sharply. ‘Oh, language, apologies.’ He colours, just as he did the day he swore after dropping a spanner on his knee, the time we sat and talked. David had gone for supplies; it was just me and him.

The curtains around my bed fly open, instantly breaking the spell.

‘I am so sorry about that, Rhys, Susan.’ Kat’s cheeks are ruddy and flustered. She falls in beside Rhys, reaching down to me. I follow her hand; her nails short and tidy, her hand resting on mine. ‘Are you okay?’ she asks.