‘Cathy? Is it?’ The voice was as thin and uncertain as the face.

‘No, it’s me, Anna, her daughter. Mum’s not here.’

‘Anna?’

‘Yes, your granddaughter, Anna. I got your letter.’ I pulled a letter out of my pocket, held it up as proof. ‘I got your letter, Grandma, and I came.’

The door opened wider.

‘Anna? Baby Anna?’

‘Yes.’

The whole dressing gown now, a thin woman, rheumy eyes blinking, looking. She began attacking the locks on the screen door, and as the screen door opened and she stared at my face I saw that there were tears leaking into the lines on her wrinkled cheeks. She reached out and began plucking bony fingers at the front of my top, pulling at me until I stepped forward and she clutched me in a fervent embrace.

Her head barely reached my shoulder. I brought my arms up and hugged her in return.

It was like holding a bundle of sticks.

4

Near the end of that first week of school Nassim turned to me in class and said, ‘So, I’m assuming you’re not a brilliant droid and that sometimes you eat?’

I could see where he was going with this. ‘I don’t have time to socialise this year,’ I said. ‘I can’t go out.’

‘Oh goodness no,’ he said, ‘of course not. Entry into medicine isn’t going to achieve itself – 96-something wasn’t it? And you’ll want to be aiming for 99.95 really, if you’re going to be safe.’

‘That’s right!’ I said. ‘Exactly right.’ And then nothing was as clear as it had been a moment ago and it felt odd when I said, ‘So I’m really sorry.’

‘Now,’ he said, ignoring me. ‘Is there anything in particular that you don’t eat? Are you vegan? Averse to chilli?’

I regarded him carefully.

‘I’m omnivorous,’ I said. ‘And I like chilli.’

He drummed his index fingers on the tabletop, a rapid drill, a gesture I would come to recognise as winding up energy before launching into something difficult.

‘Okay. Say “no” if you like. I can deal with “no”, but just let me put this to you first. So . . . I like to cook,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit embarrassing, bit of a secret, but I mean I really like to cook.’ He rested his elbows on his knees and looked up at me; he spoke slowly, and with particular enunciation and emphasis, like he was explaining a difficult chemical equation. ‘So, what if I was to make something, for lunch, tomorrow, for you, which,’ and then in a rush, ‘would save you some time tonight, I think, wouldn’t it? In the time it usually took to make your own sandwich or whatever you could study some more, or get ready for bed a bit early, or just, I don’t know, give your brain a break, do something else you like to do. I won’t do it if it would make you feel weird. But it would be a great favour to me – more than you know – and when you taste it, you can practise your insight and sensitivity and ability to articulate things to tell me why you loved it or hated it or remained indifferent to it despite my best efforts, and then you need to walk with me.’