‘Sure. I’ve got his number on my phone upstairs.’

‘Can you WhatsApp it to me?’ I ask, writing my number on a corner of my exercise book and tearing it off. ‘That way I won’t lose it.’

Gemma hesitates. Perhaps she’s one of those women who keeps her hairdresser a secret because she doesn’t want other people to have nice hair, but then she takes the paper and slips it into her bag. ‘Do you want to take Bear’s lead on the way back to the classroom?’

The lead must be very germy, but I can use hand gel afterwards. She loops it round my wrist and Bear trots at my side, and people smile at me and I pretend that he’s my dog, that I could take him home with me, into my bedroom, and we’d lie next to each other, staring out of the porthole at the harbour, like we’re on a little boat; and I would whisper all the scary things in his velvety ears, and even though obviously he wouldn’t understand them, it might feel better to say them out loud.

In the lift I lean down to touch his head, and Bear glances up at me. His eyes are so different from human eyes, there’s no white bit, only black-brown like the colour of DL’s espresso.

I slow down in the corridor because I’d like to keep hold of the lead for longer, but I guess the other kids are missing out on Bear-time. As we go round the corner, I hear a door open and a shriek that makes his ears twitch, then flatten with fear.

‘What the hell is that filthy animal doing in a hospital?’

She’s not meant to be here for another hour, but that’s definitely my mum racing towards us.

I drop the lead.

Chapter 12: Gemma

She’s so much like Casey that I almost do a double-take.

Younger than me, but the weariness in her face reminds me how it felt to have to cope, day in, day out, watching someone you love suffering. The effort it takes to be simultaneously optimistic and pessimistic: bigging up the latest treatments, while staying alert for hidden dangers.

‘Casey, come here, right this minute. I hope you haven’t touched that . . . thing.’

Casey moves nervously towards her mum.

‘Actually, no, don’t touch me,’ her mother says. ‘Go into the toilets straight away and wash your hands at least three times before coming out, please,’ she orders.

Casey does as she’s told.

I don’t know how to react, but before I can, the woman turns on me. ‘Are you mental?’

‘That’s a bit harsh,’ I say, wanting to cover Bear’s floppy ears. He’s cowering, even though he can’t understand the words.

‘This is a hospital,’ she speaks slowly, ‘full of vulnerable patients. You’re endangering them by bringing an animal and its germs into this place.’

I step back – she’s too close to me and Bear, considering how dangerous she thinks we are. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, but the hospital trust is happy with its risk assessment—’