I’m talking to her as if she’s a human being, which is the only way to talk to her, but now I think, she’s had no childhood. None. She arrived in the world as she is now. My newly functional brain can’t work out whether this is significant, and if so, how. I think I’ll leave it for a bit. And treat her like any new acquaintance.

Though of course she can see my insides, which is a bit different.

‘Have all the residents here got nanobots inside them now?’

‘Yes, like you. And Helpers, like me.’

‘Goodness, it’s going to be interesting today. I have vague ideas about some other people here, but it’s all a muddle. I expect some of them were more compos mentis than I was, though.’

‘You have – or had – a form of dementia. Many of them did too. Not all. Everyone was suffering from some of the problems age brings. Or used to bring.’

‘Are you saying you’ve cured every ill?’

She smiles and shrugs, for all the world a young girl to my eyes. My renovated eyes.

‘We don’t know. The nanobots have never been tried out so comprehensively before. They’ve been developed for specific tasks, but ours are more versatile, because we can communicate with them in real time.’

‘I think I know what you mean.’

‘For example, right now a team is working on your knee joint. The right one. I’ve directed their operations and they’re currently mending a tendon.’

‘You did that while talking to me? I’ve always thought multi-tasking was a bad idea.’

‘It’s easier for me,’ she says gently, and I think she’s being polite. She has great capabilities, and she’s trying not to make me feel inferior. Which means she’s showing empathy, and that’s far more impressive than her ability to multi-task. I know a lot of humans who can’t manage it.

We leave the room, and go out into the care home. I presume I’ve done this many times before, but though it all looks sort of familiar, it’s not really. As well as my recent memory being a black hole, I’ve been effectively blind for seven years.

The carpet is thick and springy under my feet. What a sensation – when did I last do this? My right knee feels fine, for the record. I didn’t know there was anything wrong with it anyway.

The home is clean, but it’s too hot. I would prefer some fresh air. Or air full of pheromones, as I now know it to be. I turn to Winifred, but she’s vanished. To fish out some more of her old ladies, I suppose. And gentlemen. It’ll be like the resurrection of the dead this morning. As in the painting by Stanley Spencer of all the people coming out of their graves in Cookham.