‘Where are you taking him?’ I asked again. ‘Why isn’t he waking up?’

Again, my questions went unanswered.

The trolley burst through double doors with a clatter, its wheels squeaking on lino. I tried to follow it but a pretty nurse, with a swinging high ponytail, caught my elbow.

‘Please.’ I attempted to break free, but her grip was firm.

‘English?’

I nodded.

‘You come.’

‘But Adam—’

‘He looked after. We check you okay.’

I didn’t need somebody to tell me I was okay. I wasn’t. I was falling and breaking apart. I hovered outside the room Adam had been taken into, second-guessing what was going on inside, but my medical knowledge was limited to watching Casualty on a Saturday night. My grasp of Spanish non-existent.

A woman hurried past me, a tormented expression on her face, a baby in her arms. Immediately I laid my palm gently on my stomach.

‘I… I’m pregnant,’ I told the nurse.

‘Come.’ Her voice softer. I let her lead me away.

My eyes, throat and ears had been peered into; a blood pressure monitor wrapped tightly around my arm. My temperature had been taken. I’d had a scan. Been offered tea, coffee and a plate of fish and vegetables that had made my stomach roil. My body was clad in borrowed scrubs, too short and too tight but at least they were dry. I had been offered everything except the one thing I really wanted: assurances that my husband would be okay.

Was okay.

The family room was small and airless, the walls a dirty orange, the floor an expanse of shining white tiles knitted together with darker grout. In the corner, a red bucket speared by a mop. Here, it smelled like lemons. I sank onto a too-soft, too-low chair. My knees almost level with my chin. There was a stack of magazines on the table I couldn’t read, and then a tourist’s guide to Alircia, which I could but didn’t. It was painful to see the photos of all the places Adam and I had visited on our previous visit: the volcano, the lava tunnel, the underground lake. There were so many things I had yet to do with Adam. So many places we hadn’t been. I refused to believe he wouldn’t wake up, and yet worry throbbed relentlessly at my temples.

I was longing to talk to someone. That’s what they always did on TV dramas, wasn’t it? Low mutters and desperation pouring down a phone line. But who? Adam hadn’t been close to his parents for years. If I called my mum it would bring back memories of Dad being rushed to hospital and she would feel helpless being so far away. She couldn’t fly out because she had to look after Nan. I would tell Mum soon, but not until I could hold it together without crying. She wouldn’t know how to cope.