‘Jammy Rodgers?’ I said, and I realized I was very drunk. Dancing. Alanna pinching me – on the hip, on the top of the hand, on the thigh – whenever she wanted attention. She didn’t care that I bruise easily, though she’d figured it out quickly. Stuart Brandon Pierce. Then the car park as I waited for my taxi home. The fucking car park. Did I take a taxi? I cannot piece together the evening. It makes me feel irritable.

As always, getting to work, I am reminded that my lack of experience makes me vulnerable. I find the front door shut, which is confusing. I try it several times before realizing it is locked and trying my key. There is no one in the Bowl. I look at the rota on the wall: Alanna and the girls have taken the day off. I know we’ve been calling it the big night for months, but I honestly hadn’t foreseen the kind of weekend that lasts until Monday. It hadn’t occurred to me to check for any alterations in the rota. Anyone can put absences up there, but Mona or I have to OK them as we are the senior nurses. If no objections are raised by the end of the week, any absences are cleared. The girls knew there was no way we would OK this change but in the excitement, Mona and I forgot to check, which is what they must’ve hoped for. We are dramatically understaffed and I am half an hour late. This is incredibly irresponsible. So much for the girls sticking together. It’s only Mona and me today, and unsurprisingly, she is nowhere to be seen. She must be halfway through the first-floor rounds and is probably really mad at me, though I am the one who has actually made it to work. I hurry to take my smock out of the locker and when I get back to the Bowl I see that the switchboard is going off. Room 214. I could ignore the switchboard code: I’m alone in the Bowl and the front door is unlocked. I really shouldn’t leave reception unattended. But the switchboard is for emergencies. Which is precisely why he always rings the fucking bell.