From the door, a nurse pushed a trolley towards them. “Medication.” The solidly built green-uniformed man gave a flat stare that wasn’t quite directed at either of them.

Lauren was handed a small paper cup that held two yellow capsules, dangerous-looking things. She eyed the nurse, and the paper cup, with a barbed resentment, but she tipped the pills into her mouth, swallowed a slug of water and leaned forward for inspection. The nurse shone a light inside Lauren’s open mouth. “Tongue,” he said, and Lauren lifted it. Without a word, he clicked the torch off and moved the squeaking trolley in the direction of Rod.

“They let me bring my phone in today,” said Patrick. “I took some films for you, of Riley and Morgan.”

She clapped her hands together and sat up, illuminated with anticipation, as much as she could be; her movements were slow now, even when she was upbeat. He held out the phone for her to see, but he didn’t allow her to take it from him. “They said not to,” he explained, in response to her questioning frown.

There was Riley, rolling over from his front, pushing against the floor with great effort until he tipped sideways. He lay on his side, legs curved stiffly backwards preventing him rolling all the way over, eyes and mouth wide with surprise that the world had flipped so suddenly. Soon though, his neck got tired and he lay his heavy head on the carpet, one arm stuck out to the front and the other waving desperately in the air. Behind the camera, Patrick was chuckling, calling his son’s name. Then Riley looked up again and his expression had changed, he was crying, he was stuck—why was no one helping him? The film ended.

“Oh, bless him,” said Lauren. “Love him.”

In the next one there were the two of them, smiling and flapping their arms, each in a different coloured bouncy chair.

“New bouncers?” she said.

“Yes. Look,” said Patrick, pointing. “Green for Riley, yellow for Morgan.”

Lauren didn’t react. That was another side effect of the drugs: her usually nimble mind was slow on the smaller nuances. But then, incredulous, she said, “You don’t mean you still can’t …”

“I’m joking,” said Patrick, laughing. “That was a joke. I know they’re in the wrong bouncers—the nanny did it. Of course I can tell them apart. They’re so different. It’s obvious.”

She laughed, but it turned into a sob and he caught her before she sank down towards the floor.

“I knew it,” she said quietly into his ear. “I keep doubting it. But it’s true, it worked. What I did was worth it; those boys are mine, Patrick. My babies.”

“Of course they’re yours, sweet thing. Of course they are. Mine and yours. They always were.”