[ It's a familiar room, now. She knows what that pillow smells like, knows which drawer he keeps his pyjamas in. Knows the number of blind footsteps between the bed and the door to the bathroom.

She takes the offered seat comfortably. All the way upstairs, her attention had followed the flutters at his back, but now . . . for just a moment she appreciates how easily he can sit and stand, how he breathes without straining, and lifts his arms without pain. ]

Mm. I think . . . I know what you mean.

. . . one of the people I knew from home was ported out. At the end of August—we didn't know if it would only be for a little while, but . . . she hasn't come back.

I've been thinking about the same thing, since then. That . . . we never really know how long we have, here. But the time we have—the time I've had, the people I've met . . .

They're really important to me.