Nic closed the fridge door, put both hands on the top and hauled herself to a standing position. Will leapt from the sofa, but she muttered, I’m fine, and so he stood back, watched as she wedding marched from the room. That was what Dad called it. His way of moving, towards the end, from the bed to the bathroom, sometimes the living room to watch TV. One foot out. Pause. Bring the other foot to meet it. Pause. Step out. Pause. Other foot to meet the first. If any of them told him to sit down, said, Let me help, he’d brush them off, fake cheery voice: Just practising me wedding march. It’d made Will want to knock the old man to the ground, kick him in the crumbling lungs. Stop pretending, he wanted to scream. Admit you’re fucking dying on us. Of course, he never did that. Never did anything to show Dad that he knew how hopeless it was. Even the pot was a way to continue the pretence: Give you your appetite back, help you get better quicker.

Watching Aunty Nic wedding march out of his sight didn’t make him want to knock her down or kick her. Didn’t make him want to do anything except call Mercy and ask her what he should do. What was the right thing? Aunty Nic was clearly not fine on her own, but she refused to let him do anything other than dole out her painkillers. Lena had apparently pissed off back home, and it was only when he imagined Mercy asking, Where does your sister live? that he realised he’d never asked, and that made him feel even more fucking helpless and useless.

He checked his phone: no messages or missed calls. Nearly midday. Shit. He remembered, then. Around 6 a.m., desperate enough to yank out the tooth on his own if he could find some pliers, he’d taken two more Endone. The relief hadn’t been instant. He’d lain still for what felt like days, listening to cats yowling under the window, almost gone back for a couple more pills, but then all at once the warm syrup swooshed through him and his jaw relaxed and next thing was waking to Aunty Nic scrambling at the fridge.

He crouched where she’d been a minute earlier, put the drinks back, leaving out a small bottle of orange juice to take in to her. He’d love some himself, but everything except water and milk took his pain to the next level. Yesterday at the hospital he’d bought a pot of sweetened plain yoghurt and managed to suck it down okay. Why hadn’t he thought ahead, bought an armful to keep him going? Like he didn’t know he’d need to eat again within the next twenty-four hours. And he thought he could be a dad, take care of vulnerable kids when he couldn’t even—