I wanted to know everything. I wanted to strip back the medical terminology and the science and understand it all. Adam wasn’t a statistic, a condition. He was… he was Adam. My Adam. But I wasn’t ready to hear all of the answers and couldn’t think how to vocalize all the things I needed to say.

Dr Acevedo hovered for a few moments at the foot of Adam’s bed, picking up his clipboard containing notes that I couldn’t decipher, but I knew if I could read Spanish they wouldn’t make things any clearer.

‘I’ve other patients to see, Anna,’ Dr Acevedo said when I remained mute with shock. ‘If there’s anything you need.’

There was so much I needed. I needed Adam to wake up and be a husband to me, to support me through the grief of losing our child. I wanted to ask Dr Acevedo if he could grant me those things but instead I gave the standard British response ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

I was a liar.

But I would not cry.

I watched Dr Acevedo leave.

I would not cry.

And then I followed him out of the door. I was going back to our apartment to ring our travel insurance company and arrange to have Adam flown back to England where surely something could be done. It wasn’t hopeless. It wasn’t.

I would not cry.

The kindly nurse had given me the money for a cab and a bag full of sanitary pads, and after collecting a spare key from reception I was back in our apartment. Everything was exactly the same as we had left it. Adam’s clothes a mess in and around his open suitcase. My things neatly unpacked. In the wardrobe hung the turquoise dress I had worn on our last night here when we had met. I had been planning to wear it again, to take Adam to the same restaurant.

It was freezing. I aimed the remote at the air-conditioning unit that chugged on the wall and wrapped the white cotton duvet around my shoulders.

Still, I shivered.

I had never felt so lost. So alone.

I wasn’t quite sure where to start. My bag had sunk with the yacht. Luckily my cash and passport were in the safe at the bottom of the wardrobe, unlike my mobile, which was at the bottom of the ocean. I called reception and asked them to google the number of our local travel agent.

The travel agent took an age to answer. When they did, I jabbered out a condensed version of what had happened and why I needed our travel insurance policy emailed to the hotel.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Curtis. I can only divulge booking information to the lead passenger.’

‘That’s my husband, Adam.’

‘Yes. Can I speak to him?’

‘Haven’t you been listening? He’s in a coma.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’