Instead, Faith, that little trooper, dropped her crochet hook and scuttled over to the craft trolley, returning with paper and a jar of coloured pencils.

“You’re right, Jemma. I suck at crocheting, and that’s okay! But I can design you some new costumes for Luci, and then you can make them!”

“That’s always the plan!” I agreed with an encouraging smile, turning back to my own crochet hook and the ferret-sized mermaid costume that I really needed to have finished before the weekend.

“Hey, since we’re talking about Luci, when can she come in for a visit?” Harper asked.

“Yeah!” Ellie piped up. “We’ve heard so much about her, but we’ve only seen pictures.”

Breathing out a low, slow sigh and forcing back the prickling in my eyes, I pasted a sunny smile on my face.

“I know you want to meet her super badly, girls, but I asked, and the … the hospital said that she’s not an approved therapy pet, so I can’t bring her in.”

I hated being the one to make their little faces fall. But honestly, I knew I’d feel worse if Luci-Fur, my wayward ferret, did something to compromise their treatment. Or their immune systems.

“I’m sorry, girls,” I finished, and I focused hard on my work so they wouldn’t see how much my eyes glistened.

* * *

“I’d sell my goddamned soul for a cask of Riesling and a cinnamon donut right about now,” I muttered, dropping my not-quite-finished product, with the crocheting hook still attached, onto the hospital coffee shop table.

Ezra, my official bestie, and unofficial therapist, grimaced. “Are you sharing this hypothetical cask, or are you just situating yourself under the tap and opening your throat for it?” He leaned back, running a hand over his immaculate strawberry-blond hair.

“You’ve just finished a twelve-hour shift, you’re about to clock back on for overtime, and you’re wearing hospital scrubs with flipping sausage dogs on them! How do you look like a runway model?” I grumbled.

“Good hydration, excellent genes, and a tinted moisturiser by Selena Gomez,” he replied with a smirk, tilting the straw of his Stanley Cup at the bundle of emerald-green yarn on the table between us.

“Is this ‘The Little Mer-ferret’?” he asked.

I groaned. “It’s supposed to be. I’m struggling with the tail fin, though. And don’t even get me started on how I design a shell bikini that Luci won’t immediately eat. Why did I think this was a good idea?” I wailed.

“Because …” Ezra said in his talk-crazy-Jemma-down-off-the-ledge voice, gripping my fingers and un-clawing them from the yarn, “… when you’re not a bundle of anxiety, you can see how crazy talented you are! You took some drawings from one of your patients, and you turned them into an amazing, creative, unique product.”

I snorted. “Ridiculously niche and frivolous product … and they’re not my patients,” I grouched.