‘We’ve had a request from the nurses to see Kofi. He’s asked for you,’ Pryia tells me as we put our bags in our lockers.

‘Me?’ He doesn’t even know my name.

‘Yup, he must have heard the word on Hospital Street about that voice!’ she tells me, smiling. She waits as if I’m supposed to say something in response. People always do. I’ve no idea what they expect me to say. As if I can say: ‘Oh yeah, my voice is out of this world, isn’t it?’ Mostly I say nothing, which can come across as rude.

When we get to Kofi’s room we go through the motions, scrubbing up, putting our aprons and masks on. We elbow our way into the room and stop as our eyes register the same thing at the same time. Kofi isn’t in his bed. His mum isn’t there either. The room is empty.

‘What?’ Owen’s voice is muffled by his mask. He checks his chart.

‘Maybe he’s seeing a consultant? Or he’s gone to another ward?’ Pryia suggests, but there’s a catch in her voice, a nerve triggered as she looks at the empty bed.

‘Well, let’s go and find out,’ Owen says, pulling his mask off.

‘Hope, you wait here. We’ll be back in a minute,’ Pryia tells me. I sit down on the chair and get out my cleaning gel.

I think about what an empty bed in a hospital means to me.

I’ve squeezed out too much gel, the alcohol or something acidic makes my eyes water.

I think about Fatima’s empty bed and her successful organ donor.

I blink my eyes clear.

I look back at Kofi’s empty bed.

The door opens and people come into the room.

I think about my dad’s empty hospital bed.

‘Hope!’ I hear a voice call out. ‘What’s happened? Are you crying?’ He sounds less than impressed.

‘Here you go, honey.’ His mum passes me a tissue. I take my glasses off but don’t know where to put them. Someone takes them.

‘Thank you,’ I reply, drying my eyes. There’s black mascara all over the tissue.

‘You look like a panda!’ Kofi shouts happily and I laugh. Kofi’s mum hands me back my glasses.

‘Cheers, well, you look like a leopard,’ I retort as my eyes clear and I spy his animal print t-shirt.

‘I know, goals! So, what are you crying about?’ Kofi asks me.

‘Kofi! Manners, honey,’ his mum says.

‘I got cleaning gel in my eyes,’ I tell him. ‘Anyway, where’ve you been? Owen and Pryia have gone to look for you.’

His mum gets up. ‘I’ll go and find them. Will you two be good?’

‘Sure,’ he tells her, looking happy at the prospect of being left alone with me, which is slightly unnerving. His mum waits a second or two more and I realise she’s waiting for me to say something. I’m the one who is being left in charge, not Kofi.

‘Oh, yeah, we’re good. Take your time.’ I try to present a relaxed and confident front.

‘Thank you, honey,’ she says to me. Once she’s left the room Kofi lets out a big sigh.

‘Got any sweets? I’m dying for a Big Mac; can you smuggle me one in?’

‘So, where were you?’ I ask him, ignoring his requests for sugar and burgers.

‘Oh, boring meeting with Mr Rasheed about boring stuff. Have you been to the Doctor Who Experience? It is awesome!’ he quickly changes the subject.

‘No, I mean, I haven’t been yet but I will do.’ I remember I’m not supposed to ask the patient questions.

‘I’m going to live in Cardiff when I grow up. It’s where it all happens. I’m going to be a Doctor Who cameraman! Have you got any Match Attax? Or Doctor Who cards to swap?’ He looks as if he is expecting me to whip some out of my back pocket.

‘Not right now, but I’ll bring some in next time. Which ones do you want to swap?’

He points to a box on his bedside table, a school shoebox from a discount warehouse. I pass it to him. Inside are cards held together with hairbands tight enough to snap. He picks one set out and flicks through it, then selects ten or more cards.

‘These are my swaps. Next time, bring yours and we can play Top Trumps too. Important question alert – who’s your favourite Doctor?’

‘David Tennant?’ I pick the one doctor I know.

‘Oh, shame. I’m Team Matt Smith, he’s the fun one and the best. Top Doctor. Fact. Tennant is second, possibly tied with Ecclestone. We don’t talk about the other one.’ He looks disappointed with my response. I’m lucky I didn’t pick the other one, whoever he is, poor guy. Kofi puts his swaps back in the shoebox. I place it on the bedside table. I search for a new topic of conversation but haven’t spent much time with eleven-year-old boys, apart from Callie’s brother Ethan. I could ask him more stuff about Doctor Who but he’s clearly a hardcore fan and would catch me out in seconds.

‘So, are you going to sing to me then?’ Kofi asks.

‘Uh, well… it might be better to wait until Pryia and Owen get back. They’ve got all the instruments and know what they’re doing.’

‘Don’t you know what you’re doing?’ he asks bluntly. ‘I thought you were one of the adults. Please?’ he carries on in a small voice. ‘You can write something for me, can’t you?’

‘How about I sing you a song by someone else? Who’s your favourite?’

‘Tracy Chapman. Do you know her?’

I nod, I know her, but I’m surprised he does.

‘Do you really?’ His eyes sparkle. I nod again. ‘My mum plays her songs all the time. It sounds like being in our flat when I hear her voice. Can you sing “Revolution”?’ he asks, his eyes drooping a little. ‘That’s her best one,’ he adds, as Pryia enters the room. I clear my throat and hum the introduction and then I start singing to Kofi.