I open a zip pocket and find her phone. It takes me a while to work out what the cover photo is of – I’m too immersed in the detail. Only when I move back can I see it. It’s a child’s handprint in white clay, the kind that new parents have done – so dizzily in love with our newborns and for the first time understanding the fragility of time, already lost in a future nostalgia for now because the horrific reality is unignorable: one day this perfect tiny miracle will become an ugly great mess of humanity. So, desperate to preserve this momentary perfection we press their little hands into white clay as ‘concrete’ proof of it.

I look at my leaf and the stupid leaf is looking at me, waving merrily. But I am not merry, I am far from it. I feel a panic and a sadness swirling inside. Where does all the love go? Where has everything gone? Where is my mother? I swipe away the handprint. I want to speak to Karl. I want to hear his voice. I need him. Right now I can’t quite remember why we have split up; the reasons don’t seem important. Perhaps he and I are salvageable. I must speak to him.

I stare at the keypad. I have no idea of Dr. Robinson’s code. So I continue looking in her bag. In another zip pocket I find her wallet. Inside is a photograph of a balding man playing some sort of wind instrument, presumably Si, looking like a chipmunk. I find her driving licence; it takes a while for me to realize that it is a picture of her. Time has not been kind to her, or me – it has slapped us both about a bit. She looks so young and happy in the photo, plump and glowing, full of life’s potential before disappointment management becomes the name of the game. Maybe she and her musical husband have been backpacking in the Himalayas, or helping starving orphans, or rebuilding earthquake-ridden towns. Yes, I bet he’s a doctor, working for the Red Cross or something heroic.