Jem’s face, blotchy. He’s been crying. ‘I don’t know what happened to the octopus, Luce, but you’re going to be okay.’ Going to be okay. ‘We’ve had to remove the ruptured implants,’ someone says. The same person—another person?—says: ‘Skin is very damaged.’ ‘Another reconstruction could be an option.’ ‘Best plastic surgeon in Tasmania.’ ‘Works wonders.’ Wonders wonders wonders. ‘Other symptoms: concussion, whiplash, and grazing.’ ‘Fortunately, nothing is broken.’ ‘Options.’ ‘Rest now.’ ‘Think about it later.’ Later. Later. Later. ‘Take all the time you need.’

She doesn’t need time.

Her consciousness wanes into an impression of autumn twilight and suspends her there, lazing in what she’s sure would be an amber glow if she could open her eyes enough to see it. She’s so warm. The world hums. Sleeping seems like a nice thing to do. But she doesn’t quite sleep. She dozes in another half state, aware, but not quite awake. Watching through her fluttering lashes.

Jem wakes as his mother opens the door with a gentle knock. She gives him a coffee and a kiss on the forehead, whispers something, then leaves again. He stretches his neck, rolling his head on its axis. Sips at his coffee and plays on his phone. Poppy pokes her head in the door, sees Lucy is all but sleeping, waves at Jem, and retreats.

Poppy’s made the trip to Hobart for me? Lucy wonders, and with her surprise, her consciousness clarifies.

‘I’m not getting another boob job,’ she says, to see how the idea will hang in the air. Phlegm stifles her words. She clears her throat, and tries again, more firmly this time, like she’s trying to convince herself: ‘I’m not going to have breasts.’

The way Jem looks at her. What’s on his face? Relief, concern, love. So much love. Something else?

She meets his gaze. ‘I know you loved them,’ she says. ‘But I didn’t. I hated them.’

He moves quickly, from his chair to her bed, and then he’s holding a plastic cup of water to her mouth, but he hasn’t quite tipped it enough for her to drink. She lengthens her lips into a pout, and then he tips it too much. Water leaks from the corners of her puckered mouth and trickles down her neck, on the outside and the in, washing the phlegm away. He puts the cup back on the table, mops her up with his sleeve, then snuggles his body against hers, but gently, so as not to hurt her.