If there was anything on Adam’s mind now, did I really want to know what it was? Mentally I drew up a list of pros and cons. He could be thinking of me, of our unborn child he did not yet know had gone. If the worst did happen, I could be secure in the knowledge that he loved me until the very end. But he could be angry with me. If I had taken the swimming lessons he always urged me to take, he might not be in this situation right now. He might blame me and the pain of that would be unbearable. But then, he might need something and I could make it easier for him. But what if he was in so much pain he wanted to die? How would I cope with that?

My mind went back and forth; the trial is a good thing. A bad thing. Not being able to decide either way.

The third thing to consider, of course, was that there might be nothing inside Adam’s head. A blank canvas. That the space Adam’s hopes and dreams once occupied was now empty.

At least I would know for sure.

The minutes ticked by.

A 3 per cent chance of recovery, Dr Acevedo had said.

If I didn’t agree to the trial, would I regret it? If Adam… I could hardly bear to think it, but if he didn’t survive, would I always be wondering? Hating myself for missing my one chance to know?

A 3 per cent chance of recovery.

I was running out of time.

Yes or no. Yes or no. Yes or no.

Part Four

‘I am a scientist, but I still believe in miracles.’

OLIVER CHAPMAN

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Anna

It is late. Nell has gone back to the apartment to sleep. Oliver has given me overnight to think things through and I sit here now, back at the hospital, back by Adam’s side. Remembering.

‘Seven years. It’s been seven years since that night on the beach,’ I whisper.

I had laid on the damp sand with Adam, his thumb stroking mine. Dawn smudged the sky with its pink fingers while the rising sun flung glitter across the sea. We’d faced each other curled onto our sides, our bodies speech marks, unspoken words passing hesitantly between us; an illusory dream. Don’t ever leave me, I had silently asked him. I won’t, his eyes had silently replied.

But he did.

He has.

Will he ever wake up?

I stroke his cheek. His skin is dry.

My mind drifts over my memories, which are both painful and pleasurable to recall. We were blissfully happy until gradually we weren’t. Every cross word, every hard stare, each time we turned our backs on each other in bed, gathered like storm clouds hanging over us, ready to burst, drenching us with doubt and uncertainty until we questioned what we once thought was unquestionable.