Laura has hardened up since we started medical school. Everyone has, except me. I’ve gone the other way. Things that wouldn’t have affected me at all, that I’d barely have noticed before, now lodge themselves inside my head. When I’m trying to remember symptoms or conditions, the words elude me. Instead, I see the faces of patients in pain, patients who died.

One of the midwives pops her head around the door. ‘Which one of you two requires a complex needs for your project portfolio?’

Laura shrugs. ‘I’ve already got two written up.’

‘You then, Timmy? The girl in bay three is threatening to leave. Sit with her and make sure she doesn’t.’

I look at the row of teas. ‘Is she nil by mouth?’

‘No, a tea might shut her up for a bit.’ I grab two mugs and follow her out.

Zoë’s voice echoes down the corridor. ‘Has anyone seen my shoes? Has some bastard nicked them?’ She sounds a lot less well-spoken than she did talking to the consultant.

I nudge my elbow through the gap in the privacy curtains, holding a mug in each hand. ‘I’ll go and look for your shoes in a minute, Zoë. But would you like a drink first? Coffee or tea, I’ve got one of each?’

She looks suspicious. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Tim. I’m a medical student.’

‘No way are you watching me push this baby out.’

I shrug. ‘That’s fair. The offer of a drink still stands, though.’

‘Tea. Then I’m off. Out of here.’

I gesture at the chair next to her bed. ‘Can I hide with you in here for a bit? Otherwise the midwives will put me on bedpan duty.’

‘They look like total bitches.’

‘Actually, they’re really nice to patients. But med students are the lowest in the pecking order in the whole hospital.’

‘Lower than junkie scum?’

I don’t know how to reply: it’s something they don’t train you for. I sip my coffee and wonder how I’ll write up this encounter. We’re meant to keep a record of challenging cases and reflect on what we’ve learned.

Mostly, I learn that I can’t do small talk. I look around the curtained space for inspiration. Usually, there’s something on the bedside table: ‘get well’ or ‘congratulations’ cards from family, a puzzle book to dip into.

Zoë has no belongings here. Her body offers the only obvious topics for conversation: how long ago did you start using heroin? Have you self-harmed lately? What the hell were you thinking, getting pregnant?

Even I know none of that counts as appropriate small talk.

‘So, what’s the goriest thing you’ve seen since you started your doctor training?’

I smile: why do people always ask me this? ‘You really want to know?’

‘I’ve got a strong stomach.’