She arrived at the surgery on a Tuesday morning to fill in for Mark Lang. Mark was the youngest doctor at Marrickville Family Practice—an eager, big-hearted guy, a good GP, even if he still needed a bit of guidance when it came to the more delicate judgements the job required. He was a fervent mountain biker, rock climber and scuba diver. Just hearing Mark cheerfully recount his strenuous weekend activities made Paula feel limp with tiredness. This week, he’d flown to the Solomon Islands for a diving medicine conference and Paula was covering his open appointment morning.

The first patient was already waiting on the blue chairs—six-year-old Brody with his mother Rochelle. Paula smiled hello to Rochelle and gave Brody a little wave.

‘Hi, guys,’ she said. ‘I’ll be with you in one sec.’

Paula stopped by the front desk to check on a few bits of admin with Jemma. Meanwhile, she could see Brody pressed up close to his mum, holding her hand. He was a sweet kid, shy, always keeping his mother in his sight and usually clinging on to her. The family had moved into the area a year ago and, even though Brody was on Mark Lang’s patient list, Paula had treated him three or four times. His mother often brought him in with stomach pains and the doctor’s role was to check it wasn’t anything alarming and then to offer reassurance. Paula figured that Brody missed a lot of school because of anxiety-related ailments.

The mother, Rochelle, was a reserved person, on the anxious scale herself. Clearly devoted to her son. On a previous visit, she’d explained to Paula that she worked as a beautician but only in the middle chunk of the day, so she was available to take Brody to and from school.

She was a woman who made an effort to keep up a look—face always made up, spray tan even in winter, long foiled auburn hair, acrylic nails in a muted pink colour at a tasteful length, not talons. Today Rochelle was wearing high-heeled boots with jeans and a close-fitting zip-up blue jacket. She’d draped a burnt orange pashmina around her neck with one of those chic knots that Paula could never manage.

‘Come with me, guys,’ said Paula, ushering mother and son into her consulting room.

‘What can I do for you today, Mr Ferguson?’ Paula asked Brody, as he slid onto a chair next to Rochelle.

Brody didn’t answer; he just looked to his mum, who smiled apologetically at Paula and mimed that there was a problem with her son’s throat.

‘Can I have a bit of a look at your throat?’ Paula asked.