‘What did you buy?’ I ask, looking at the bag.

‘Just something to fill time,’ he says.

‘What is it?’ I prompt, because he’s acting weird and I have no idea what’s in the bag.

‘Okay. Look. I bought something for you. I was really worried, you know. That you were going to die. Or have emergency surgery or something,’ he says. He’s flustered and I wish I didn’t think his flustered face was as cute as it is.

‘Okay,’ I say. He’s still not showing me what’s in the bag.

‘I’m going to return it,’ he says.

‘Show me what it is first.’

‘I don’t want to.’ He scrunches up his nose.

‘God, what is it?’ Something sick and twisted. Something perverted. Do they have perverted things in a hospital gift shop? My eyes are wide.

‘Nothing. It’s nothing, it’s just, giving it to you has turned into a big deal now, so let’s just forget it.’ He’s clutching the bag to his chest like it contains his greatest shame, and I have to hold back laughter.

‘Give it to me right now,’ I say, holding out my hand. He is not leaving this room until I know what is in the bag.

We look at each other. I’m in a hospital bed. He knows he has to do what I say right now.

He sighs. ‘Fine.’ He hands me the bag. ‘It was a panic purchase.’

Inside is a stuffed toy dog wearing green scrubs with the word ‘Dogtor’ embroidered on them, and a little stethoscope around its neck. It’s completely cheesy and also totally adorable.

‘Thank you,’ I say. Should I hug it? I want to hug it. Hug him? No, and no. I hold it in a way I hope looks appreciative. I am appreciative, not just of this toy, but everything he’s done all day. Appreciative and supremely irritated that I have such a long list of things I have to appreciate about the person who once crushed my soul.

‘I felt like I needed to buy something, I was in the shop so long,’ he says, as if I have accused him of something.

‘It was a good purchase. I love it,’ I say. I put the dog on the table next to my bed, and we both stare at it.

‘Would you trust a dog doctor or a cat doctor more?’ I ask, mostly to fill the silence and possibly because the painkillers have softened my brain.

‘A cat,’ he says, putting his hands in his pockets.

‘Me too,’ I say. ‘They’re smarter.’

‘A dog would have a much better bedside manner though,’ he says.

We nod, like this is a perfectly normal conversation to be having.

‘Brooke?’ says a voice from the doorway, and it’s Harper.

‘Hi,’ I say, feeling a bit shy.

‘Oh my god, are you okay?’