But who can he possibly be honest with? How do you tell someone you think random strangers and close family members are telling you about the future before it happens? Who’s going to diagnose that with a straight face?

Ms Rizzo is giving an impassioned speech about the loss of the library. Behind her, PowerPoint shows photos of the old building in its heyday, an oddly named Princess Michael reopening it after a refit in the 1970s. And then Ms Rizzo sounds choked as she flicks to a shot she’s taken this week – the remaining structure being levelled by bulldozers. She explains how there’s no public money to rebuild the place, how only local fundraising might save it now.

Brain tumour.

The words arrive without warning. It hadn’t occurred to Will before now, but that could explain it. Something growing in his own head, muddling the wiring between his synapses, making him remember things in the wrong order, believe that conversations happened before they really did. A tumour: abnormal cells, multiplying unchecked. Order turning to chaos – how very apt. He’s not been taking this seriously enough, Will now realizes, grabbing again for his phone.

‘I’d love it if someone were to take ownership of arranging an event for the younger years before the end of term,’ Ms Rizzo pleads. ‘Get the fundraising ball rolling. Prove we can do this.’

There are groans and blank faces around the hall. The lack of interest turns to muted chatter.

‘April!’ Ms Rizzo shouts over the burble. ‘Yes, April. Thank you!’

Will’s attention is snatched away from his health worries. He half smiles, enjoying the feeling of his heart breaking out of its rhythm – the way it always does when a period of thinking about something other than her is interrupted. Of course she’s volunteered, Will thinks; if anyone can do the impossible and save that place from oblivion, it’s her.

April stands in the second row from the front and looks about for anyone else who might join her.

‘Do come on,’ Ms Rizzo shouts. ‘If no one offers to assist April, it’ll be press-gang time.’

Will watches her over the sea of heads, dodging her gaze whenever it sweeps towards him. Her smile is less genuine now, embarrassment creeping into her expression as she shrugs her shoulders, pretending she’s not fussed.

Only fleetingly does Will consider offering himself. But it’s surely a job for comfortable-in-a-crowd, not-petrified-of-failure people. Confident people. People like April. People unlike him, however close to his heart the cause of resurrecting the library might be.

‘Well, if anyone has an attack of community-spiritedness,’ Ms Rizzo adds, bringing her assembly to a close, ‘I suggest you come and find me post-haste.’

‘Parks,’ a voice barks behind Will at morning break. ‘Willy Parks.’

A hand wearing several chunky gold rings is waved in front of Will’s face.

‘S’up?’ Will asks.