My head still felt like a dog’s breakfast of memories, but they seemed to be arriving in a more orderly fashion now, riding in on waves one by one, rather than dropping like bombs. Once, though, when I was winding gauze around Lou’s leg, a wave passed through carrying a small voice so clear and close I almost choked on a sharp intake of breath. Danny, Danny, look at me! I kept on wrapping the leg, around and around, firmly but gently, and exhaled as quietly as I could while little Lou coasted in to the shore.

A week and a half in, I was cleaning the skin around the wound, trying not to touch the edges, when I heard a low chuckle.

‘Your face, Danny,’ she said softly. ‘It’s OK, just get in there and do what you have to do. Don’t worry. You won’t hurt me.’ I had to look away quickly in case she could see what I was thinking, because didn’t we both know that wasn’t true?

After that, though, I did feel more confident about how much pressure to apply without causing pain, how much saline to squeeze out of the cotton ball to get a good soaking without it running down her leg. My bandaging skills had become practically professional – long even wraps neatly herringboned into each other, ends tucked away. I’d started to have ideas about turning up as an extra on Casualty.

But the most satisfying thing was seeing the small changes that were happening. Every day the long, stapled seam of the scar got drier and tighter, and the little open volcano began to form a delicate, tentative crust, its angry edges fading to a dusky pink that only looked mildly annoyed. It was all going well, so it was bound to go wrong sooner or later.

‘I still think about them every day, Danny.’

I was on my knees gathering up towels and medical supplies with my back to Lou, so at first I wasn’t even sure I’d heard right. I half turned, and the bowl of water in my hand splashed over the edges and on to my arm. When I stood up, a warm rivulet trickled from my elbow to my wrist and I wondered if I could pretend I hadn’t heard her, just bundle the rest of this stuff up and leg it. But I was too slow.

‘When Mum first died, every morning just for a few minutes I used to pretend that what happened wasn’t real. That she was going to be there making breakfast when I went downstairs.’ I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck slowly rising and I tightened my grip on a bottle of saline. Ah, Lou. Hadn’t we been doing so well?

‘Just for those few minutes, I’d lie there and tell myself, nothing’s changed, Mum’s still here. We’re all still here.’ I could feel my sister looking at me but I kept my eyes on the floor. ‘You know, for a while I even tried to pretend that real life was a bad dream, and that when I went to sleep and had dreams about you and me and Mum and Dad all still together, that was real life, and I just had to wait out the day until I could get back to it.’