“I’m OK.” I shrug, because I don’t have the words to describe how I feel, and even if I did they don’t need to hear them. “I’m not thirsty.”

“Too bad, you’re drinking it.” She returns with a glass of water and passes it over, giving me a pointed look. “Unless you fancy ending up back in hospital connected to a drip because you’re dehydrated?”

Meekly, I take the water and force myself to drink it.

“Good girl.”

I notice for the first time that the couch is not in its normal position, that it is further out from the wall than it used to be.

“Why’s the couch moved?” I ask.

Kate and Amanda exchange a look.

“Shall we show her?” Kate asks.

Amanda shrugs. “I don’t see why not. Now is as good a time as any.”

“Show me what?”

“While you were in hospital we had a mail delivery.”

“What kind of mail delivery?”

Together they push the couch along, revealing a massive pile of packages. Some are wrapped in normal postal bags. Some are in colorful paper. Others are even in Christmas gift paper.

“Whoa,” I say. “Who are they for?”

“You.”

“Seriously?”

“Well, they all have your name on the front,” Amanda explains. “Though that’s about it. The guy who delivered it all said they’d been getting mail addressed to ‘Ava from the Women’s Weekly’ for a while. They finally managed to convince the magazine to pass on your address and, well, here it all is.”

I stare at the small mountain of gifts in wonder. “Who are they all from?”

“Why don’t you open them and find out?” Dad suggests.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It would be wrong, wouldn’t it?”

Mum sighs. “Ava, I love you. But sometimes you make about as much sense as a screen door on a submarine.”

“Gee, thanks, Mum.”

“Why would it be wrong to open these presents? They’re all for you.”

“But I don’t know the people they’re from. It’s not my birthday. I haven’t done anything to deserve being sent gifts.”

“I know it’s hard to understand, but people feel like they know you, through the magazine articles and your column. Apparently, their readership circulation is the highest it’s been in years.”

“I’m glad someone is profiting from my death.”

The joke, as such, falls flat. “Sorry. Anyway, what’s the deal with the Christmas paper?”

“Well, there are only just over three weeks until Christmas,” James answers.

I stare at him. “There are?” He nods.

“Wow. That came around quick.”

“December always passes by in a blur,” Mum says. “It’s the same every year. You think you have all the time in the world to be all festive and make the cake and do all the preparation that needs to be done, but before you know it, the day itself is here.”

This Christmas is different, though, and we all know it. My last Christmas. There is an echoing silence around the room as we all think about the same thing. Amanda, predictably and to everyone’s relief, breaks it.