“Hi, I’m Liz, Maddie’s physiotherapist,” says the woman, stretching out a little finger in greeting, as she turns the girl’s foot in all directions and then begins to bend her knee.

I want to say, “Hello, Madelyn,” but it suddenly feels as if I have a gigantic, invisible cookie caught in my throat, preventing me from speaking. My tongue, mouth, and voice all desert me as I run my eyes over her face, her cheeks, her wrists, all dainty and beautiful.

A catheter is hidden under Maddie’s nightie and tracksuit bottoms, and two tubes are connected to her index finger. There is a vial of eye drops on the table next to her. Further dropper bottles on the table by the door contain other medicines. There are machines by her bed, monitoring the oxygen in her blood and her heartbeat on a constant basis. She is obviously fed through a tube that vanishes into the skin next to her collarbone. Another tube protrudes from her neck; it’s hooked up to the ventilator.

All the same, I can sense as little of Maddie as any non-synescreep would. I cannot see who she is. There’s nothing but frozen ice on a silent river. She is completely enveloped in something that feels like an electrically charged, icy air bubble. She’s staring at me, but she cannot see me. We have that much in common, at least.

“Liz, this is Samuel. He’d like to ask Maddie how she’s feeling today.”

No, what I’d really like to do is crumple to the floor.

“We’re dancing, but we’re just coming to the end of the first act. After that, she has a speech lesson and ergotherapy. It’s a pretty busy day.”

Liz proceeds very carefully and cautiously, yet I’m concerned that Maddie is in pain. Her features are impassive, though, and her eyes stare off into the distance, far beyond the walls of this room. I try to concentrate even harder on her.

Nurse Marion picks up a clipboard from a small table over by the window. The tulips in the vase are orange today.

Maddie’s face shows no emotion as Liz manipulates her feet and legs. The red-haired nurse kneels on the floor, gently touches the girl’s fingers, puts a soft ball in one of her hands and then the other, and, after each test, makes some notes on her pad.

Not so fast, I think. You’ll scare her. But now Nurse Marion runs a feather along Maddie’s bare lower arms. I get the tickles just from watching.

Her hands, I think. She needs to be taken by the hand. And no sooner have I had this thought than something stirs inside her, deep below the surface.

“I’ll come back later to do the tactile test. How’s Maddie’s dancing today?” Marion asks, as if this question includes some kind of code word.