My words come out in a mess, a garble. I try my best to explain what is wrong but I don’t feel as though I am making much sense. ‘It’s my son,’ I tell them. ‘I think he’s having some kind of fit, but I’m not sure and I don’t think I’m thinking straight. I have anxiety, terrible anxiety about his health, I think things sometimes that aren’t true at all and I can’t tell right now if something is wrong with him or not.’

‘Did you say your son?’

‘Yes, he’s eight, he’s nearly nine, I’m frightened that he’s having some kind of seizure. He keeps shaking, but I don’t know if that’s just me, I can’t tell if it’s just all in my mind.’

‘Is he hurt physically?’

‘I don’t know! That’s the thing, I don’t know!’

‘Are you having thoughts about hurting him? Are you having thoughts about hurting yourself?’

‘No, no, of course I don’t want to hurt him! He just keeps shaking, he won’t stop, but is it all in my mind?’

‘I can’t – I’m sorry – over the phone like this. But if you say he’s shaking … Do you think maybe you should take him to A&E?’

I feel a wave of relief. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll do that, thank you. If you’re saying that’s what I should do.’

‘Well, I—’

But I am already hanging up. Charlie’s shaking seems to have calmed now. He is limp. He looks as if he’s just sleeping. But I can’t be sure. ‘Charlie!’ I whisper to him. ‘You have to get up. I have to take you to the hospital.’

He groans sleepily, opens his eyes.

I pull him from the bed, stand him upright. I drag day clothes out of his drawers, strip him out of his pyjamas and push him into trousers, a T-shirt. On my phone, I bring up the Uber app. With my other hand, I pull Charlie to me, holding him tight against me. Tiny tremors still run through him.