Three pairs of socks, two hygiene kits, a charger, a blanket, a radio, two jumpers, a cushion.

Every single one of them purchased on the way, carried in, unpacked, described, and put in a drawer in a room in a building that supplies all of it as standard, by a woman who could not be in a chair.

Sit down, Hannah. Nineteen times.

And the last time he asked it out loud — properly, as a request, on the thirty-first of December, with two days left — I looked at my watch and said I had five minutes, and I gave him twelve, and I was pleased with myself about the seven.

The next paragraph is the one he clearly wrote last, because the handwriting is worse.