Even now, in daylight, the building is achingly familiar with its glass-roofed entrance and the blue NHS sign on the wall. I breathe deeply. I’ve made it. In through the sliding doors, I’m hit by that hospital smell of cabbage and antiseptic. Everywhere I look there’s doctors, wheelchairs, trolleys, teddy bear-shaped balloons on sticks. There’s a queue at reception, so I find the lifts and jump in just as the doors are closing. ‘Which floor, love?’ says a lady doing the buttons. ‘Cheetah Ward’ is all I can remember. ‘Fourth floor,’ she says. We start to go up. I’m fidgety as anything. There are other people in the lift. No one speaks. Everyone’s watching the buttons light up. First floor … second floor … Each one takes me nearer to Theo. At the fourth floor, the lift doors open.
