But Casey reaches for my hand to stop me. ‘Talking about doing stuff reminded me of my friends,’ she says hesitantly. ‘From hospital. Two of them got their wishes granted by charities. Ram got to be a VIP at his favourite team’s match and to meet the players. And Liza got to walk on top of a volcano – her whole family got to fly out with her to Lanzarote and spend a whole week on holiday.’ Her other hand is stroking Bear’s tummy and he’s gazing up at her. ‘But then they both died like really soon afterwards.’

Shit.

‘Oh, Casey.’

She’s sobbing now. ‘I’m not stupid, I get that it didn’t . . . that they’d have died anyway, but what if . . . what if the same happens to me?’

I lean over Bear to hug Casey, feeling her chest heave as she cries. I rub her back and wait, because I know from my own bouts of crying that this can’t last for ever. Gradually the rate of the sobbing starts to slow and, after a couple of minutes, she releases herself from the hug.

‘Sorry, Gemma.’

‘Don’t be sorry. I’m so sorry you lost your friends. I know what it’s like to lose someone you care about. But you said it yourself: it’s probably chance that they died then. Or perhaps they got priority for having their wishes granted because they were so ill.’

Casey sniffs. ‘Maybe.’

‘Your dreams don’t have to be big things. You could try lots of little treats that you’ve missed out on, like when Pepe did your hair.’

Bear’s started snoring and I take this as a sign that he believes Casey is better, that his therapy work is done. ‘I guess. I’ve always wanted to be a regular at a fancy cafe where everyone knows your name. And to go to a gig and . . .’ She sniffs. ‘Is that – did Bear just fart?’

I sniff too. ‘Yup. That’s what happens when you give a dog ice cream.’

‘But . . . he’s so small and that smell is so—’

‘Overwhelming? He has farting superpowers.’

Casey starts to giggle. Has it helped her, to speak her fears out loud?

‘Shall we go back to your dad? We could make a list of the small things and work out how to make them happen.’

‘Would you come and do the things with us?’

‘Casey, I can’t promise that. I have a job – things to do.’

‘Please. You can make time for me. For my dad too. He always seems happier when you’re around.’

‘Does he?’

Casey nods knowingly. ‘Oh yes. He can be ultra-moody, but when he’s with you, he can’t stop smiling.’

The list we make together covers a page of A4 and fills me with joy and pathos. So many of the things are ordinary activities that I took for granted, growing up somewhere busy: shopping for vintage clothes with Laura in a second-hand market, a day at the beach playing crazy golf with Dad, a cinema trip with both parents and a giant bucket of popcorn.