He never gave good news and he never gave catastrophic news. Always a small increment. A scan that was inconclusive. A doctor who wanted to try something.

A bad week and then a slightly better week.

“That’s the bit I keep coming back to,” Dolores said. “He never once said you were doing well. Because if you’d been doing well, somebody would have said oh thank God and then next time asked a follow-up question.

Bad news that isn’t the worst news — nobody asks a follow-up. They just put a hand on your arm.”

“Did anyone ever offer to visit?”

“Four people. Priya, obviously. A woman called Marisol who has family in Boston and offered to bring you food.” Dolores’s voice went flat. “He said you’d asked not to be seen.