‘Now I’ve got to take blood from this patient,’ says our tour guide, drawing the curtains around the bed. ‘You don’t mind if these students watch, do you, Mrs Marshall? We need to see how your body is responding to the pills we’ve used to treat the nasty bugs that have been causing so much trouble.’

His tone gets my back up, but Mrs Marshall does her best to look cheerful.

‘More the merrier, doctor.’ She wears a bright-pink dressing gown and has applied full make-up this morning, which makes her look much healthier than the women in the other beds. But it’s clear she’s not relishing the prospect any more than the doctor is. Her withered arm is polka-dotted with bruising in different shades at the wrist and the crease of her elbow. I’m sure I can see her veins shrink back under the thin skin of the antecubital fossa as the F1 moves the kidney dish towards her.

We all watch as he screws it up. Twice. Both he and Mrs Marshall stare mournfully at the newly blooming marks.

‘I’ll give it one last go before asking the phlebotomist,’ the F1 says brightly, even though the patient’s mascara is running because he’s made her cry.

Our uni has a thing about learning by doing and, having taken blood from each other several times last week, we’re all more competent than he is. But no one here would dare to challenge this kid because we already know how strictly hospital hierarchies are respected. He might be a minnow here in the ward, but we’re not even amoebae.

Mrs Marshall’s eyes rest on me and I can see her pleading.

‘Could I have a look?’ I ask the F1 and instantly regret it.

Maybe it’s because I am older than him, or the shock at being asked, but he shrugs and lets me step closer. Her outstretched arm looks so exposed and I place my hand across hers. Her fingers are red, because of the band he’s applied above the elbow to make the veins stand out.

‘I’m Kerry.’

‘Florence.’

I let my hand rest on Florence’s for a few seconds, ignoring the huffing F1 and the stares of my peers. I make my breathing slow, and wait for her to match me. Above her bed, there’s a child’s drawing, with Get Well Soooon Nanny written below a blue sky with a bright sun beating down.

‘Who did the picture?’ I ask.

‘My oldest grandson,’ she says, ‘he’s only six and look at his handwriting . . .’

As she tells me about him, I look at the crease in her elbow. There must be a vein that could work. There.

I look up at the F1. ‘That’s the basilic, right?’

‘It’s not going to work,’ he says. ‘Don’t you start getting ideas!’