‘No,’ I protest. ‘I’ll be fine, I’ll try the breathing thing again.’ But the panicky feeling only worsens. My head flops back against the chair and I’m scared that I’m about to black out.

‘Nonsense.’ Celia brushes aside my concern. ‘You’ll feel so much better.’

I shake my head and tap my chest, trying to will air into my lungs. But nothing’s working. I want to tell her that I’m feeling a little better now. That I don’t need an injection. That I don’t want an injection. But I daren’t pause my slow-breathing exercises in case that awful, black dizzy feeling returns.

Celia rolls up the sleeve of my jumper. I’m breathing more deeply now, thankful that the dizziness is gradually receding. I’m actually beginning to feel slightly better. I open my mouth to tell her in no uncertain terms that I do not want her sedative, but it’s too late. I’m dimly aware of her administering the injection – a sharp cold sensation on my skin.

‘There. All done!’ Celia declares with a smile. ‘We’ll have you sorted in no time.’

I try to turn my head at a knock at the door, but I feel suddenly and strangely too relaxed to move. Must be the sedative kicking in. That was quick.

‘Right on time,’ Celia says brightly. ‘That’ll be Malcolm. I’ll get the door. You stay there, Zoe.’ That phrase seems to have amused her, and she shakes her head with a smile. ‘Don’t mind me. It’s an inside joke.’

Celia disappears from my line of sight, and I realise that I genuinely cannot move. It’s very disconcerting. I wonder how I’m going to be able to get back into bed. I knew Celia should have left me where I was rather that shifting me into this chair. Maybe Malcolm will help her move me back.

He comes into the room carrying, of all things, a backpack. Celia closes the door behind him.

I want to greet Malcolm, but I can’t seem to move my mouth. And strangely, he doesn’t even acknowledge me, other than a brief glance in my direction. The two of them sit huddled together on the edge of the bed as Malcolm opens up the backpack. They’re discussing something intensely in low voices, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.

Celia suddenly remembers I’m still here. ‘Are you okay, Zoe?’ She glances up and stares at me. But she doesn’t look like herself. She’s lost her soft, gentle demeanour. Her eyes are hard, assessing, critical.