An orderly collects us and takes us to the ambulance in a wheelchair. I get a chance to check on the turtle while we wait for the lift. I told Papa about him. Papa said he sounded rather unusual. He said that all the turtles he had ever met were fairly solid characters. I notice that the tank faces the television in the nurses’ station. God knows what he’s been watching. ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Can you not tell when I’m sleeping?’ he answers. I add liar to the list. ‘Papa says you’re unusual,’ I say, ignoring his rudeness, ‘and he doesn’t mean it in a good way.’ ‘Whatever,’ says the little turtle, in a voice I recognise as lonely. He turns and slides off the rock into the water. I wish I hadn’t said anything. Eventually the lift dings, the doors open, and the orderly pushes me inside. Once on the ground floor, after a brief pause at the front desk, we’re wheeled to the ambulance bay. We pass Dr Patek talking to someone on her mobile. She makes elaborate hand signals to say she’ll catch up with me in a minute.
