When Lauren remained on the bed, Patrick said, “I’ll go,” and went to the little cupboard where the formula tub and other equipment was kept. He opened it up but there were no bottles. He looked to the nurse, gesturing helplessly, screwing his face up against the sound.

“Down the corridor,” said the nurse, smiling, singing the words gaily over the crying, “the sterilisation room. You’ll find bottles, kettles. Off you go.”

“Right.” He swung the door open and strode away from the sound, which was like being inside a small speaker with a pair of police sirens. No one could stand it; she hoped he’d be quick.

Ruthie, struggling to contain the screaming thing in her arms, gaped at Lauren, who had made no move to take the baby from her, to comfort him or his brother as a mother ought. Lauren saw a glance pass between Ruthie and the nurse, and forced herself to go near, placing herself in a position where she could reach out and stroke the heads of the babies but avoid taking either of them.

The screams seemed to enter her head from the front and sides, from above and below. She stood still and let it saw through her, shutting her eyes and imagining that the pain of the sound was happening to someone else, that she was wrapping it up in cloth and holding it apart in her mind. Eventually she could bear it. She opened her eyes, watched the unlocked door, calculating how far she might get if she went to it now, opened it and ran. Not far. there’d be sentries out there, and more doors, with more locks.

The moment the door opened a crack Lauren sprang forward and pulled it open. She took the bottles from Patrick’s hands and held them up to eye level. Seeing there was too much water in them she went into the bathroom to tip out what wasn’t needed, her hands shaking slightly. The two boys, who had turned almost purple with fury, continued to shriek and kick and slap in the arms of Ruthie and the nurse, who were bobbing up and down on the balls of their feet, to no effect. The nurse was trying to distract Riley, singing something that couldn’t be heard over the crying, but Ruthie looked stricken, bouncing with a sense of defeat. After a second she just stopped still and looked in horrified wonder at the small, impossibly loud and angry thing in her arms.

Lauren tipped the measured powder into the hot water and handed Patrick a bottle. “Keep shaking it,” she said. “It’s too hot.”

As if they could tell that milk was within reach, the crying got louder, the shrieks more insistent, more demanding. And then she heard the words they were saying, and she stopped. These nearly five-week-old babies. They were forming words.

“Is it OK now?” said Patrick, still shaking the milk.