Page 48 of The Elements

I shake my head and take another drag on my cigarette.

The name means nothing to me, but then the hospital has almost 180 beds and I rarely venture far from either the burns unit or A&E.

He tells me that Harry had a kidney transplant three months earlier, but it hasn’t taken and he’s back on dialysis now, waiting for some unlucky person to crash their motorbike or fall under a bus.

He’s been kept in for the last five days due to complications related to a bladder infection, and there’s no sign of him being released any time soon.

When he says the word bladder , he blushes and looks away, which is adorable.

“It’s good of you to visit him,” I say.

“He’s my best mate,” he replies with a shrug. “We grew up together.”

The boy is close to tears, and his helplessness touches me.

“And you?” I ask. “What’s your name?”

“George,” he says.

“George what?”

“George Eliot.”

I laugh, unsure whether he’s joking.

“What?” he asks.

“George Eliot?” I ask. “Seriously?”

“Oh yeah,” he tells me, obviously accustomed to being asked this question. “The writer. I know. But she was a woman, wasn’t she? And I’m, you know, not.”

“That’s really your name?”

He nods, and I have no reason to doubt him. It would be a strange thing to invent.

“Well, I’m Freya,” I say, offering him my hand to shake. He takes it, although he’s obviously uncomfortable with such an adult convention. His palm is slick with perspiration, and I try to be subtle when I wipe it on my skirt. “Where’s your dad anyway? Is he coming back to collect you?”

“No, he had to go back to work. He just dropped me off and came up to say hi to Harry. I’ll get the bus home in a bit. You don’t work in the kidney department, do you?”

“No,” I say. “Burns.”

“Like, people caught in fires?”

“Among other things, yes.”

He grimaces, as people often do when I tell them my speciality. Illnesses are one thing, but disfigurements, particularly those caused by fire, make people uncomfortable. They feel sympathy for the victims, of course, but they’d prefer not to witness the deformities.

“Are there things the doctors aren’t telling him?” he asks. “Harry, I mean. Could you find out and let me know?”

“I’m sorry, no,” I say. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not? He’s my best mate,” he repeats.

“I understand. But there are rules regarding patient confidentiality. You’ll have to speak to your friend himself. Or his parents. I’m sure he’ll share with you whatever his doctors have told him.”

He nods. He’s seen enough television shows to know the ethics that govern the medical profession.

I’m aware of his eyes drifting toward my legs.

He isn’t any more subtle in his ogling than his father was, just less experienced in it.

His tongue protrudes from his mouth, and I know that, right now, he’s not thinking about Harry.

He’s thinking about sex. But then, to my surprise, he starts crying.

“Hey,” I say, stubbing my cigarette out beneath my trainer and moving closer to him. “Are you OK?”

“Yeah,” he says, wiping the tears from his cheeks. “Sorry. It’s just—”

“What?”

“I don’t want him to die.”

I am rarely troubled by sentiment. I prefer to remain dispassionate in my dealings with patients and their families, speaking to them in ways that neither patronize nor offer false hope.

I tell the truth, refusing to sugarcoat adverse diagnoses.

When I have to deal with the emotions of children who have suffered in conflagrations, their skin blistered, their features distorted, their nerve endings either severed or screaming out in unendurable pain, I do so in the company of their parents and a nurse—usually Louise—along with one of the hospital’s pediatric therapists, where I remain composed and professional throughout.

So I’m surprised when George’s tears inspire an unfamiliar and, if I’m honest, rather unwelcome empathy in me.

“I’m sure your friend’s doctors are doing everything they can for him,” I say.

“Do people die from kidney failure a lot?” he asks.

“It happens,” I admit. “It’s a serious disease. But older people, mostly. Your friend’s body will be young and healthy, so he has that in his favor. It will put up a fight.”

“He doesn’t look healthy. His face is gray and he’s all weak. Like, he can’t even get out of bed on his own right now.”

There’s not much I can say to reassure him.

The truth is, if Harry has already rejected one kidney, then he will most likely reject another.

Multiple transplants cause extraordinary trauma, and bodies as young as his aren’t designed to be abused.

Eventually, without renal attainment, his functioning organs will be unable to compensate and they’ll start to shut down.

Of course, I don’t say any of this to George.

He wants comfort, not a professional opinion.

“It’s good that you care about your friend so much,” I tell him. “It’s sweet.”

He studiously avoids looking at me. Teenage boys never want to look fragile in front of girls or women.

When they talk about us with their friends, they can be ruthless and demeaning, speaking of us as little more than bodies to be used or experimented upon for their pleasure, but when they’re alone with someone of the opposite sex, their intrinsic terror and total spinelessness assert themselves.

They are monsters, every one of them, utterly devoid of decency.

“I sometimes have to treat people your and Harry’s age,” I tell him, cautiously placing a hand on his while not wanting to frighten him away.

His skin is incredibly soft. “And every one of them feels better when they know they have people who care about them. You could be out with your other friends right now, larking around, having fun. But instead, you’re here. He’s lucky to have you.”

There’s something I want to ask him, but I made a promise to myself when I woke this morning that I would never ask this question of anyone again.

To break that vow within a few hours would show a total lack of willpower on my part.

And so I simply glance at my watch and stand up. I need to go. Rounds.

“You take care of yourself, George Eliot,” I say.

Turning my back on him, I feel his eyes follow me as I walk away.

He’s upset, concerned for his friend’s well-being, but he’s still a fourteen-year-old boy and his hormones are affecting his every waking moment.

Ahead of me are the sliding doors that will lead me back inside, and I tell myself to keep walking, to march through them, return to the elevator, and let him go about his day.

But that’s when I think of Arthur and Pascoe, of the caves dotted around the coastline of Cornwall, of the night I almost died, and I’m defenseless.

I stop, look down at the ground for a moment, then close my eyes, allowing myself a resigned sigh.

When I open them again and turn around, George looks away, embarrassed at being caught staring, and I walk back toward him.

He has nothing to fear. If anything, it’s me who should be afraid.

After all, a doctor in the burns unit should know better than to play with fire.