No. I’m wrong. I remember another night, when we were little, a cold evening back in his mum’s bungalow when the two of us were dressing up in old clothes. We found two men’s shirts – I suppose they must have been his father’s. Maybe his mum had kept them in case he came back.

Mine was white and Tim’s blue, and we put them on backwards, like surgeons, and we were looking for underpants to wear as surgical masks when his mother walked in.

We froze, expecting a telling off. Instead, she started to laugh.

‘Oh, hens, look at the pair of you. Dr Tim and Nurse Kerry. Aren’t you both adorable? Let me get my camera.’

‘I’m not a nurse, I’m a doctor!’ I shouted.

Poor Tim looked from me to his mother and back again. I knew he was afraid of her moods and her tongue. But he folded his arms across his chest and nodded. ‘That’s right, Mum. Kerry and me are both doctors. We’re going to make everyone better!’

‘So will you stay?’ Tim asks, interrupting the memory. ‘I need you with me.’

I have never been able to say no to someone who needs me. But what about my needs? Being here has made me realize I can’t make someone else happy unless I am happy myself. ‘Of course I’ll stay. But when we get home, things have to change. Because I’m going to need your help.’

‘Anything you need.’

And as we hug each other, I begin to tell him what it’s going to take to make me happy again.

It is the last night of our stay in the project. We eat our meal with the others – a modest feast in our honour, with my favourite dal and the mango and jaggery drink Tim likes. The Boss has already said goodbye to us in private, praising his analysis of the consequences of illegal payments demanded of women in labour. She thanked me, with a pained expression, for my strictly policed menial work in the clinic.

Siya has almost forgiven me for landing her in it, and she’s the one doling out hand-made cardboard medals.

‘This is for you, Timothy, for being a very cute nerd!’ She blushes as she pins the square ‘medal’ to his shirt. It reads EXCELS AT EXCEL.

Mine is circular and made from tin foil, with letters scored through to reveal the white card behind it: CLEAN GENIE.

I smile as I pin it on myself. ‘Surely, “shit shoveller” would have been a more accurate description. Along with vomit, blood, wee and the rest.’

Although this place has taught me much more than how many colours and consistencies of bodily fluids there are. The Kerry who arrived here was so stuck in a rut she couldn’t work out why. Siya saw it straight away: I’ve had enough of being hands-off.