Not this ill, though. As she pushes the door ajar, a rotten stench twines out to greet her: bad milk, fly-blown ham. It takes studied effort to place one foot in front of the other and creep inside.

Father lies on his back, fever-bitten. His head doesn’t rest on the pillow but twitches this way and that. Does he see her? She’s never certain these days. Whether he’s alone or in company, he produces the same jerky movements, the same liquid-choked moans.

The curtains are drawn and the light is kind. Pearl edges closer. He’s thrown the sheet partially off his body, exposing his shoulders, chest and one atrophied leg. How thin he’s grown. A tortured shape, slowly disappearing into the mattress. He can’t take solid food any more. Instead, the disease feeds upon him.

‘D’you want some water, Father?’ she asks softly.

He flings his head in her direction. Yes. She hears his voice clear as a bell, even though he can’t speak. Maybe this is part of the Gift. Maybe her spirit can commune with Father’s and they’ll have no need for words between them.

With an unsteady hand, she reaches for the funnel. Father attempts to open what’s left of his lips for her, but he can’t control that black jaw. She wedges the spout in as best she can.

Few teeth remain. They jut at impossible angles. The actual jawbone is dark and decaying. When he could talk, Father said he needed a surgeon to cut it out.

Myrtle called them all butchers.

Pearl tries to imagine how Father would look after such an operation: he’d be a strange, broken doll of a man. She shudders at the thought. Maybe Myrtle’s right about the surgeons.

Carefully, she tips the glass. Water trickles slowly down the funnel. She sees it slide over his gums, and the flick of his poor tongue. Of course there are drops that run to wet the pillow, but she’s practised at this. She knows how to administer the liquid without choking him.

Her own mouth is still dry, despite her earlier drink. Maybe it’s because of the nausea. Pearl listens to the soft flow of the water in the funnel and it becomes all she can think about.

At last the glass is done, and she can remove the funnel. The end that sat in Father’s mouth is coated in something phlegmy. Pearl closes her eyes momentarily, sways on her feet. If only she was strong like Myrtle. Myrtle wouldn’t even flinch.

Father looks exhausted by the short ordeal, too. She watches his eyelids droop, whispers, ‘Rest, now.’

Pity wars with revulsion. She tries to focus on the parts of him that still look normal. His hair. It’s a sweaty tangle, turned grey from all his pain, but at least it still resembles hair.