“We’ll handle it,” she says, already reaching for her phone. “Just go.”
I nod, already backing out, then stop.
“Marie-Louise, this was a private conversation. This doesn’t end up in the paper.”
She blinks, caught off guard. Maybe because I don’t usually push back. Maybe because it’s the first time she’s heard me sound this certain. Either way, I don’t soften it.
“That goes without saying. Text me if you need anything,” she adds, her voice gentler now.
I manage a small nod and slip out before my brain has a chance to overthink what state Alfie might be in.
The drive to the hospital feels both very long and very short. Traffic lights take forever. Parking takes forever. Finding the right entrance takes forever.
Inside it smells like disinfectant and coffee and that strange hospital air that always feels slightly too warm.
“A&E?” I ask at reception.
They point me to another desk. Then another corridor. Then someone else asks Alfie’s name, checks something on a screen, tells me to follow the blue line on the floor.
Hospitals seem designed to make you feel slightly lost.
Eventually a nurse looks up from a clipboard.
“Can I help?”
“I’m here for Alfie Westland,” I say. “The school said I could come. His father is away.”
She checks something.
“And your name is?”
“Ava Morgan.”
She gives me a small, understanding smile.
“He’s just through there. Last cubicle on the right.”
My stomach tightens as I walk down the row of curtains.
And then I hear him before I see him.
“I want my dad.”
That small, broken voice does something painful to my chest.
“I want my dad,” he sobs again. “I want Dad.”
I step around the curtain slowly.
Alfie is sitting on the bed, too big for it and too small at the same time. There is a small white dressing above his eyebrow, a faint line of dried blood at the edge. His cheeks are blotchy and wet. One arm is held stiffly against his body like he doesn’t trust it.
A nurse is crouched beside him.
“You’re doing really well,” she says gently.
“I want my dad,” he repeats, voice wobbling.
My throat tightens.
