Simon had not been in a hospital since his fall, all that time ago. He was too young then to remember much except the room he lived in for two weeks while his broken legs set. There was a tree just outside his window that scratched when the wind picked up. A nice nurse had brought him a pack of cards. He remembered the colour of the band they made him wear on his wrist. He remembered the light, too, he realised now. Even here—a different hospital in a different state—the light was the same sickly yellow-white that felt like it stuck to you.

It was morning now, early, the sun nothing but a suggestion below the horizon. The emergency waiting room was in the heart of the hospital, in an alcove where four paths met. It was painfully cold. One of the nurses had given Simon a blanket, and he shared it with Audrey, who was asleep in the chair next to him. She tucked the blanket to her chin, holding it there with two bare arms. With no coat to cover her, Simon saw long sleek lines of scar tissue hatched into Audrey’s wrists. He tried not to look, but he had to. He wanted to wake her up, to tell her it was okay. He wanted to tell her that he had scars too.

Audrey had wanted to stay with Gin, but they had to wait for Ned to say it was okay. They hadn’t seen Gin, Ned or Madaline since they got to the hospital, but people kept saying they were fine. The doctor told them that Gin was okay, that nothing bad had happened to him. Ned had hurt his ribs, they said, and they had to keep an eye on him because of the concussion. Something had happened to Madaline, something that meant she was having an operation. Tarden was in another part of the hospital, and no one would tell them anything about him. The doctor hadn’t even heard of Kuiper.

Simon saw his grandmother coming down the hall from the reception desk. She looked, now, more like Simon had remembered her. No makeup, her hair pulled back to a loose ponytail. Dressed in a jumper and light brown trousers, plain sandals on her feet. She walked with short deliberate steps. She had a bunch of flowers in her hand, held out far in front of her like a firecracker. Simon wondered where she got flowers so early in the day. They were bright and loud, great rainbow tassels, like hats and gloves shoved into wrapping. The cellophane hissed as she walked, past the other people in the waiting room: a young couple asleep with an empty pram beside them; an old man with a suitcase, his head in his hands.

‘Simon,’ she whispered. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Fine,’ he whispered back. ‘Did you find anything to drink?’

She shook her head. She held out the flowers. ‘I want to take these up to Jack. Will you be all right here?’

‘Why do you want to see him?’

‘I just do.’

‘Will they let you? We don’t even know what’s wrong with him.’

She shrugged. ‘I’m going to see.’

She shot a glance at the policeman by the nurse’s station. He was a big guy, middle-aged, his grey hair buzzed short. He held his hands awkwardly behind his back and seemed to have trouble deciding which leg to stand on.

Simon liked the other policeman better, the one he gave his statement to a few hours ago. They’d done it at Tommy’s house, although Tommy wasn’t there. In a proper office, with a proper police notebook, using a proper tape recorder. The other policeman told him that Tommy would be ‘taking a break’.

It was his grandma who had called the police—the proper police. After Madaline and Ned left in Ned’s car, Simon knew he had to tell her what was going on. It seemed like—after he told her—that she’d lost her breath. She kept asking him to repeat himself, as if she sort of believed him, but couldn’t quite. Then her face seemed to get longer, and she made the phone call. While they waited, she showed Simon her photo album. Pictures of him as a baby, and pictures of his mum growing up, then with a young guy without a beard who was his dad. His Grandpa Karl, who he’d never met, took most of the photos, but now and again he’d appear in front of the camera. His grandma had told Simon that he looked like Karl, but he couldn’t see it. He thought about the pictures his parents took, their portraits for the calendar every year. He wondered if there would still be a calendar to make.

‘Can I go and look for something to drink?’ said Simon. He thought he’d seen a vending machine in the hall.

‘Maybe soon,’ said Iris. Her eyes looked glassy. ‘Just stay here a moment.’ She walked over to the policeman by the nurse’s station and started talking to him.

Simon couldn’t hear what she was saying. All he heard was the cellophane rustling from the flowers in her hand. She and the policeman talked for what seemed like five minutes. His grandma’s hand movements got bigger and bigger the more they talked. Eventually, the policeman bent down his head. He put his hand on Iris’s shoulder.

Simon thought his grandmother’s body seemed to change. Her shoulders dropped, her arms fell to her sides. It was as if the whole shape of her had deflated. The policeman stroked her shoulder, shifted his weight again. His grandmother sniffed. Her legs began to shake.

When she finally turned her head to look at Simon, her eyes were the colour of a slow, sad ocean.