She closes her eyes, making her rejection of my offer known. After hovering a second, the absence of anything else to say crushes my confidence. I respect her decision and leave.

Heading into my office, I push the door closed behind me, resting against it for a second to process what just happened. How I can explain it, rationalise it, how I can make head or tail of the whole situation so Gail and I can piece together the evidence to fix this mess. To fix Susan. Because I see now that I can’t do this alone. And perhaps I don’t have to.

My finger falters as I dial Gail’s number. Since becoming my line manager, she’s been fairly unavailable. I wait for the ring, checking over my story, the reason for my call, the reason I went to a patient’s house without following protocol first, the reasons I have cause for concern about my patient and my proposals on the ways we can deal with this. Mental health isn’t my area, I’m out of my depth, but I can’t walk away from the responsibility now placed on my shoulders. Her voicemail kicks in with a clipped invite to leave a message.

‘Gail, hi, it’s Kat. I…’ I swallow to regain control. This is not the time to show nerves. ‘I wondered if we could have a chat. About Susan Smith. I’ll be at my desk all day, it’s quite urgent. Thank you.’

I hang up, pressing the handset into the receiver so it definitely cuts the call. I go back out to the nurses’ station, filing papers and tidying the desk up. I take a look through the opening to Susan’s room. Her curtains are open and I can see she’s moved herself up to sit. She reaches for the deep red of her book and I freeze, desperate not to miss a thing. I watch – my shoulders high and tight – as Susan lifts the book to her face, smells it. She runs her hands down its front. She lets her fingers trace the title, and I can feel it too. Its golden italics. The twist of its letters. Susan’s breathing gets heavier, her chest gives a dramatic rise and fall. Mine does the same. She lifts the book, placing it on her knees, and my view is momentarily obscured by a porter pushing a patient past me. When she’s back in view, Susan is taking a deep breath, then slowly opening the book. Thin, flimsy pages buckle and fall as she flicks through it, eventually letting it lie flat, naturally open. At the clipping? She stares at the page – or is it the photo in the story? Maybe both? Then she lifts the cutting, studying it. As I watch, I can see the baby’s face that she sees. I can recite each word from the story. Do I feel what she feels? Queasiness. Helplessness. Deep, deep sadness. If that is her baby, she can’t only be feeling that.