Except . . .

I do step towards her and I do wrap my arms around her, and after a second’s tense hesitation, she lets herself sink into me and her chest begins to heave, but she stays silent. Even now, this brave girl can’t quite let herself go.

‘Oh, Casey,’ I whisper into the top of her head. I smell the floral tang of hairspray from the salon yesterday and I feel her tears rolling down my chest. ‘It’s OK,’ I say, the words sounding stagey to me. But they don’t to her, because she grips me tighter. ‘I’m here now. You’re not on your own.’

I’m good at logistics. I cancel work meetings, get Casey to the hospital for treatment at ten, then we race back here, where I ask her to pack a bag for her and for her mum.

‘How long shall I pack for?’

‘Just the weekend,’ I say. Because even if Angelica’s struggling, she must understand that Casey can’t have her treatment interrupted. Hopefully, a couple of nights in her own place where she can relax will sort Angelica out.

What if it doesn’t?

I expect her to bawl me out when I go into her room. I hope she doesn’t sleep naked. I’ve never seen her naked – not even when Casey was conceived. The still air makes the space oppressive, but when I sit on the edge of the bed there’s no fire in her eyes and I think she’s slept in yesterday’s clothes.

‘Go away,’ she says.

‘I can’t do that. I am going to drive you and Casey back home,’ I tell her. ‘This isn’t the right place for you to be while you’re not . . . yourself. OK?’

It’s like she’s not hearing me or processing the words, but she doesn’t argue. Is this what a nervous breakdown looks like? The only thing stopping me from calling a doctor is what Casey said about Angelica getting better before, with no treatment. How scary it must have been for Casey to face this on her own.

Together we get Angelica out of bed: she’s like a sleepwalker, her eyes open, but not seeing the same reality as we are. When the lift moves, she jumps, but that deadness in her eyes stays the same.

I reach out to steady her and she grasps my wrists. For a moment I’m back at the first-aid tent, thirteen years ago. She was more out of it then, but at least there was an obvious reason. I sat with her, so she’d be less afraid of whatever the E was doing to her brain. I kept repeating her name, telling her she was safe, and after a few minutes she settled enough to close her eyes and doze. And when she woke again, she was smiling, and I felt proud, because it proved I could do something selfless for someone else. That I wasn’t like my dad.

The lift jolts as it stops. Basement floor. Mind the doors.