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‘Be careful, Kate. You’re in danger of wearing yourself out with all this running around. And we can’t have you signed off long-term sick – you’re too useful.’

It’s the kindest thing Tessa’s ever said to me. It would have been kinder still if she hadn’t eaten my sandwich.

Lizzie

We’ve been in hospital for hours.

Tom didn’t fall unconscious for long, but he’s slept a lot ever since. Apparently, this is normal. Seizures take it out of people.

I need to go home. There are things to pick up: night clothes and so on. But I’m putting it off, not wanting to leave Tom for a minute. Sitting around in hospitals, you get a lot of time to think. To imagine.

A man waits outside the ward. He is dressed in jeans and a frayed sweatshirt, scruffy but handsome. The moment I leave, he walks casually into Tom’s ward, flashing a nice smile at the nurses.

The receptionist’s back is turned.

The man flips blond hair out of his eyes, catches Tom’s attention, winks.

‘Hey. Tommo. Come on out here for a minute. Your mum’s a liar – I never hurt you. Let’s get away from her.’

He takes Tom’s hand.

They head past the reception desk, out of the hospital, into a camper van and Tom is gone …

I squeeze my eyes tight, willing the images to go away.

Security in hospitals is excellent. Tom couldn’t be safer.

I whisper, ‘Tom. Tom. I need to pop home again. I have to get a few bits and pieces. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

I hate going home without him. It’s like I’m leaving an arm behind. But we need clothes. Healthy snacks. Stuff the hospital won’t provide.

I don’t remember the journey back, but at home I walk around in a daze.

What do I need? What do I need?

A knock at the door makes me leap out of my skin.

OhGod.

The letterbox rattles, and a thin voice calls through: ‘Elizabeth? Are you in there?’

My mother.

I freeze, mooting the possibility of hiding in here, hoping she thinks I’ve gone out.

I’ve done that before. In fact, I’ve even slithered across the floor on my stomach in a bid not to be visible from the windows. I know it’s childish, but that’s how I am around my mother. You have to be in a strong frame of mind to deal with being constantly put down.

Also, the house is still a state. She’ll be furious about that.

‘Elizabeth.’ Even muffled by the front door, I hear the irritation in my mother’s voice. ‘I know you’re in there – I can see you moving around.’

I have an image of Mum, powdered face pressed to my letterbox, listening for movement, waiting to catch me out.

Oh God. There’s no escaping it …

I cross the living room and open the front door, knowing my forehead is pinched with worry, grey bags under my eyes.

‘Hi, Mum.’