Brody dutifully opened his mouth and Paula peered in with the otoscope, being as gentle as she could with the tongue depressor. It wasn’t difficult to see that his tonsils were swollen and dotted with pus. She checked his ears, took his temperature, examined the slightly enlarged glands in his neck.

As she felt the delicate pulse under the skin, she was struck by the softness and vulnerability of his small body. Whenever she was treating children now, Paula could so easily find herself flooded with memories of Cameron and Poppy. She consciously fought off those images. She couldn’t do her job properly if she gave in to intrusive thoughts.

‘Well, Brody’s tonsils are infected,’ said Paula, ‘so I think some antibiotics would be a good idea. Is he allergic to anything?’

Rochelle shook her head and Paula turned to the computer to type up the prescription. The infection probably explained why the boy was so subdued and clingy.

Paula ran through the standard advice for looking after a kid with a bout of tonsillitis and Rochelle listened, attentive.

‘I reckon three days off school,’ said Paula. ‘Is that okay with you, Brody?’

He nodded earnestly, but then he quickly glanced at his mother to check.

‘Can you get the time off work, Rochelle?’ Paula asked. ‘Or is there someone else who can stay with Brody?’

Rochelle squeezed her son’s hand. ‘I’ll take time off.’

Paula heard it—the cracked sound in her voice—and realised that those were the first words Rochelle had uttered since she’d walked into the surgery.

‘Ooh, sounds like Mum might have a sore throat too.’

Paula turned to smile at Brody, but in her peripheral vision she saw Rochelle’s hand go to the scarf that was swaddling her throat. A centimetre above the edge of the bright fabric, the purple bruising on her neck was unmistakable. She tugged the scarf back up to cover the marks, but it was too late—Paula had seen. ‘You know what, Brody? I need to look after your mum for a little minute. Would it be okay if you hang out in our playroom for a while?’

Brody grabbed on to the sleeve of his mother’s jacket.

‘I’m okay, sweetheart,’ Rochelle assured him. There was that fractured rasp of a voice. ‘I’ll have a chat to the doctor and then I’ll come right out.’

Paula showed Brody down the hall to the corner of the waiting room. It had been Jemma’s idea to make a little corral out of play furniture to define a kids’ zone, with plastic bins full of toys and a bright ‘roadmap’ rug inside.

‘Jemma, can you keep an eye on Brody for a few minutes?’

Jemma grinned and waved extravagantly at Brody.

By the time Paula walked back into her consulting room, Rochelle was sitting on the edge of the examination bed, shaking.