‘Are you ok, love?’ She held her breath as my words bounced off the hard, green walls, but then more sobs followed. I waited. They seemed to be abating. My presence was affecting her, calming her. ‘Sweetheart? You ok?’

‘Ran away? From where? Where are you running to?’ She was obviously a patient. Why would she run? I squatted beside her.

Her crying stopped and she sniffed. I felt in my jacket pocket for a handkerchief and passed her the folded, monogrammed fabric. She felt it touch her fingers, held up her hand to push it away, but I insisted and she took it, nodding her head by way of thanks before wiping her eyes. Now she looked up at me through her hair. She was afraid - not of me, but scared all the same.

‘I don’t kn… no-one… I… I’m running…’ She chose her words carefully and spoke with purpose, as if rehearsing a tragic punch line. ‘I’m running from a slow death.’

I took her arm, helped her to her feet. Her words confused me. Was she mad? She looked troubled, disturbed even, but not insane. I just held her. She began to crumple into grief a couple of times but each time she steeled herself and soon became more steady on her feet. Then she spoke. Slowly. As if hearing the words herself for the first time.

‘Brain tumour. Just told me the results. They can’t operate. It’s not… ‘operable’. They found it too late. I’ve had pain for months, black-outs… Fucking hell! I kept telling them… telling them. They say it can’t be stopped, it ‘s too aggressive. No-one’s fault. Oh God!’ and she broke down, wailed and fell against me, her tears darkening my jacket. I put my arm around her, held her for what seemed an age. I looked around the cold, reverberating space, searching for words to console her, but found none. ‘It’s not fucking fair, I haven’t lived… so much I want to do… Just passed my exams… I have so many plans… why me? When there’s all these fucking old people in here, kept alive… for what? What? What’s the fucking point?’

I was stung by that, and she must have felt my body instantly tense. I thought of Danielle, so inert, just a few floors above us. What would she give for one more healthy day? What would I give? She had lived every minute to the full, yet we had so much more to do together. I spoke with just a hint of anger, but tried to keep a measured tone.

‘The point is that someone loves them and a life is a very valuable thing.’ As soon as the words were uttered I was again sorry for this girl, sorry for the personal thoughts that had intruded into her grief, yet I was also relieved my response had not been harsh. She was little more than a child and had every right to be bitter. I