Airway, Breathing, Circulation is written through me now, like words in a stick of rock. The muscles in my arms have finally stopped aching but they’re primed to pump and pummel someone else’s chest, to the beat of ‘Nellie the Elephant . . .’

‘Kerry, I’ll need to . . . borrow your coat.’

I am halfway through taking it off before I realize what he means. ‘Oh no. No way are you going outside. It’s below zero.’

Joel shrugs, and the movement makes him wince: the cartilage between his ribs could take another month to mend, the doctors say. ‘All I’ve smelled for the last twelve days is hospital food, bedpans and antiseptic. I need fresh air.’

‘You won’t be told, will you?’

‘I usually get my own way because I’m so charming.’

Charming is the last thing Joel has been over the last few days.

We both hear the lift ding as it arrives on our floor.

‘Act normal,’ he says, and straightens up, but I see the pain in his face as he pulls open the fire door. There are several patients plus a nurse in the lift already. She looks at us suspiciously. We’re out of place in the hospital: too young, too alive.

‘Lovely afternoon for a stroll,’ Joel says, and the nurse glances pointedly at his slippers.

He waits until everyone has left the lift before shuffling out. ‘Please, Kerry? I haven’t even breathed year 2000 air yet, have I?’ He fixes me with deep amber puppy-dog eyes. I blink away the memory of those same eyes staring sightlessly up at the black sky.

I make a decision I could come to regret. ‘Are you hungry?’

Joel shrugs. ‘I’ve forgotten what real food is like.’

The chippie is empty except for us. The windows are steamed up and, while we wait for our order, I clear a patch of glass with the palm of my hand so I can see the hospital’s lights just up the hill; I’m already worried Joel won’t manage the incline heading back. He’s taken ages to catch his breath after the walk downhill.

‘You see, the air’s exactly the same as it was last century.’

He shrugs. ‘Yeah, but the smell of those chips beats the farts from the old guys in my ward.’

His jokes give me hope that the old Joel might gradually win the battle against the new, nasty version. He’s still beautiful – ordinary words like good-looking or fanciable aren’t up to the job. But his skin is greyish and his eyes sink into their sockets.

The guy who took our order comes out from behind the counter with the warm parcel. ‘Not gonna die on us, is he?’ he asks me.

Joel and I exchange another look: a shared knowledge. If only you knew, mate.