Ortega clicked his pen shut and hooked the clipboard on the rail at the foot of the bed.

“Someone will look in on her every fifteen minutes,” he said.

“If she squeezes again, write down the time.”

So I wrote it down.

2:41, and then 2:44, on the back of a pharmacy receipt from the airport.

When he had gone, I walked down to the visitor lounge to find a vending machine, and Charles was already there with two paper cups in his hands.

“Chamomile,” he said.