‘You don’t want to train at a school that endorses that level of outdated prejudice,’ I say, though in reality, dinosaurs exist in every hospital and she’ll probably have to face far worse.

‘I want to train somewhere. I’m running out of options.’

I make a soothing noise. ‘It’ll happen. You were born to be a doctor.’

She says nothing for a while.

‘You are coming home at the weekend, aren’t you, Tim? It’s lonely in the bungalow without you.’

Her vulnerability feels like another demand on my limited resources. ‘Of course. Look, we’ll find a way to sort this out between us, we always do.’

I say this more because I know it’s expected, than because I really believe it’s true.

When I reach my digs, my landlady is out, which is a relief. She talks too much. My room is the cheapest one I could find, coffin-sized and shared with a suspended skeleton. My landlady’s not a medic, and I haven’t dared to ask why she owns one in case the answer makes it even harder to sleep.

I open a cider – one of the local habits I’ve been happy to embrace – and wait for the alcohol to perfuse. But even after I’ve finished the bottle, I can’t shake an uneasiness that I can’t identify.

Is it because I’m worried about Kerry? She deserves a place at med school, but that doesn’t mean it’ll happen. The number of places on offer is finite and some people have to apply several times. Yet I fear she won’t apply again; the rejection will be too much for her.

Still, I’m unsettled. Why? The deaths on the ward shook me, but for once, I don’t feel like crying. I take out the notebook I use to reflect on my practice.

As I write, I go through my usual list of prompts. What did I do well, what could I improve upon? Most days, I can list half a dozen answers to the second question, but my errors are never serious or irreversible. Next, I ask myself, what would a good doctor have done? This question challenges me more. The pragmatist in me knows one day I might end up competent, but I can’t ever see myself being good.

Even as I put away the notebook, something still gnaws at me. But I’m too knackered to let it keep me awake . . .

I come to in an instant, my body knowing it’s very early before my brain does.

The bleep. Shit shit shit.

I leap out of bed expecting to feel smooth hospital lino under my feet, but instead it’s carpet followed by the rattle of bones as my ankle hits my landlady’s skeleton.

What the fuck am I doing at home? If it’s a crash call, I’ll never get there in time and—