‘Okay, head over there and we’ll call you when someone is free. You’re lucky, it’s not busy right now, you’ll be seen in a couple of hours,’ the woman says, sounding bored. This is nothing to her, this is her working day.

I walk back to Jesse, who is sitting in the corner, away from the myriad of other people.

‘It could be a while,’ I say. This is his opening to escape, to leave.

‘How are you feeling?’ he says.

‘I’m okay. It hurts, but the worst pain was on the run. It’s probably nothing.’

‘Should you call your mum?’

‘I don’t want to ruin her weekend away. She’ll freak out. I’ll call her when I’ve seen the doctor.’

‘Okay.’ He looks at me like he thinks this is a bad idea. He also doesn’t look like he’s about to leave.

‘You really don’t need to wait with me,’ I say. Obviously, I will cry if he leaves me alone, but I also must push him to leave.

‘I’ll wait,’ he says cheerfully, like it’s a fun prospect for a Saturday night.

‘You don’t need to though.’ This clarification is important. I am not asking him to stay. I am not asking Jesse for help. I do not owe him anything. Let it be noted on the record, let the history books reflect the truth of the matter. Let me have this technicality, your honour.

‘Brooke. I’m not doing you a favour. I want to wait here,’ he says.

‘Oh sure. Everyone loves hanging out in the emergency room. It has such a lovely, upbeat atmosphere,’ I say.

‘Exactly. The smell, the people, the sounds, the germs. I’m just excited to soak it all up.’

I hide a smile. I pull out my phone and start googling phrases like ‘sudden abdominal pain death’ and ‘top ten signs you are going to die’ and Jesse looks over my shoulder and sighs.

‘You’re going to be fine,’ he says.

‘You only say that to someone if you think there’s a chance they won’t be fine, so it actually reinforces the idea of being not fine.’

‘So what should I say instead? You won’t be fine?’

‘Yes. I am the kind of person who appreciates an acknowledgment of the reality of the situation.’

‘Okay. You’re not fine. I think something might be seriously wrong.’

There’s a beat of silence between us.

‘Huh. You know what, I didn’t like hearing that either,’ I say.

‘Yeah, it sounded horrible when I said it,’ he says.

I keep scrolling through search results.

‘This says I have a seventy-five per cent chance of dying,’ I say, holding up my phone.

‘What will distract you?’ he says, putting his hand over my phone screen.

‘Nothing,’ I say dramatically, and I put my head down in the crook of my arms.