‘Mrs Curtis?’ The man hovering in the doorway had pale skin and green eyes that peered at me from behind round, rimmed spectacles. He also had a comforting British accent. His beard was speckled with grey and I’d have guessed that he was in his forties. I didn’t think that I had met him before, but there had been so many people passing through Adam’s room I had lost track.

‘Yes.’ A ripple passed through me. A knowing that my life was about to change once more.

‘I’m Dr Chapman. Oliver. Can we talk?’

‘Yes.’

He glanced at the nurse. ‘Shall we go somewhere? The cafeteria?’

‘I don’t want to leave Adam.’

‘I think it would be best if we were somewhere private.’

There was something about him I trusted. Perhaps he reminded me of England. I kissed Adam and told him I would be back soon and followed Oliver out of the room before spinning around and rushing back to Adam’s side. I fished my grandad’s coin out of my purse and left it on Adam’s bedside table. If he woke, he would know I had been thinking of him.

We walked in silence. The smell of bacon drifted down the corridor to greet us and I felt a hot, fierce longing for home. For Sunday brunches in our local coffee shop, mopping up beans with thick white bread. Steaming cappuccinos in paper cups and slabs of carrot cake with cream cheese icing carefully packed in a box to take home. I was overcome with a feeling of light-headedness. I steadied myself against the wall as Oliver looked at me with concern.

‘Let’s sit.’ He guided me to a table. I shook my head when he passed me the menu. I didn’t have the wherewithal to read. ‘You must eat.’ ‘Anything will do.’ Food had lost its taste. Rather than questioning me further, he nodded and strode over to the counter, returning minutes later with scrambled eggs on toast and a mug of tea.

He waited until I had finished eating, laid down my knife and fork and pushed my plate away before he spoke.

‘Mrs Curtis.’ He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

‘It’s Anna.’

‘Anna.’ Again, a few seconds of silence. ‘I’m so sorry about your husband—’

‘Adam.’ I wanted to make him real, not a number or a surname. A person.

‘I understand Dr Acevedo has talked to you about Adam’s prognosis—’

‘I don’t… understand.’ I was trying to be strong but nevertheless my eyes filled with tears. ‘There must be a way to wake Adam up?’ I plucked a serviette from the table and wiped my cheeks.