‘Yes, dear, as you should. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but it’s not the same for me. This world is – it’s beautiful now. Look outside the window – the trees, the flowers, the sunshine, all of those things. But there’s more than that, isn’t there? I mean, past the fence, there are little houses full of people. And further away, fields, and sky, and the sea – and then more places. And in all of them, nowhere are there any of the people I have loved. All gone. Not one of them left here on this earth with me.’

Her voice wobbles, and I take her hand.

‘I can’t do all of it again,’ she carries on. ‘Give my heart to someone and have it broken when they leave. And anyway, the world isn’t so beautiful. We choose to ignore a great deal. I told you I was in Kenya. What a life! But one day I went with Arthur – my husband, you know – into a village, and we saw inside one of their houses. Houses? Huts, I should say. Wooden walls, tin roof, earth floor. Furniture from a junk shop, and hardly any of it. They owned almost nothing. But they shared some food with us. It was humbling. The food was terrible, but they were such perfect hosts, and kind, and they thought the food was delicious, a really special dish, and they were attentive, and pleased to have us there in their home, eating with them… and yet we were the oppressors, of course. I felt uncomfortable. Up to then I’d accepted everything as my right. But these were humans living in a way I couldn’t imagine. It’s unfair, Margaret. You know all this. We’re lucky. We don’t deserve it, it’s an accident. Me here, them there. I wonder whether they’ll ever get all this – robots, nanobots, everything. I bet they don’t.’ She wipes away a tear.

‘Cecilia, how can you decide to die? Without the Helpers?’

‘I hoped they’d do it for me, but I think it’s against the rules.’

‘The rules?’

‘Did you ever come across the books by Isaac Asimov?’

‘I’ve heard of him, of course…’

‘He wrote down the laws of robotics, long ago, when they were imaginary. One law was that they’re not allowed to harm humans, so perhaps they abide by it.’

‘He was a fiction writer, wasn’t he? He made it up,’ I say.

‘What gets imagined is what then gets done. Science fiction writers imagine the future long before it comes to pass.’

‘Maybe so. Still, they won’t help you. Now what?’

‘I’m going to break my heart.’

‘How can you do that?’ I ask.

‘I’ll tell you. I have memories… ones I have tried so long not to think about. You know, we all do, over a lifetime. Do you mind hearing mine?’