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get on together. She died when Ellie was a baby. Ellie doesn't remember her. Isn't that sad? I couldn't bear it if you died, and I think Ellie's dad is still sad about it.'
    'I expect he is,' Lucy agreed carefully. 'People stay sad about things like that for a long time.'
    'And he asked Ellie if she'd like him to get married again, and she said she didn't know, and he said to think about it, so she did, and she decided the same as me.'
    'Right. I see. Was...was that recently?'
    'Yesterday. At breakfast.'
    'Ellie's dad must be more awake in the mornings than I am, then!'
    And he was, she remembered. He was one of those people who bounced out of bed in full possession of his faculties, whereas she needed to be jolted into it—as she just had been—or coaxed into it with the long hot shower she hadn't had time for this morning.
    Speaking of time...
    'Charlotte, we'll have to finish talking about this another time,' she said desperately, 'or we'll both be late.'
    'I've finished talking about it, anyway,' Charlotte assured her comfortably. Evidently, Lucy had managed to allay any underlying doubt or anxiety, although that had to be good luck, not good management, as she knew she hadn't handled the subject particularly well.
    Was that because the whole conversation had been built on tacit untruths she'd hidden behind for years?
    For now, the question had to stay unanswered, and she convinced Charlotte so thoroughly of the disastrousness of being late that they tumbled out of the house together in good time. The breakfast dishes weren't done, but who cared?
    In front of the school, Charlotte jumped out of the car at once and rushed off to greet a friend who also came to before-school care. On the short journey to work, the traffic flow and both sets of lights went Lucy's way. The result was that, instead of being late, as she'd feared, she arrived a good ten minutes early. The bright morning sun was just starting to heat up the air that had chilled overnight, and the sulphur-crested cockatoos were screeching at each other in the tall eucalyptus trees that surrounded the hospital.
    Knowing that she'd get roped into work the moment she set foot in the department, Lucy decided to go up to the neurological ward to see how Sam Ackland was getting on. It was four days since he had passed through their department, and yesterday afternoon, at last, they'd had a good report from the ward.
    The shunt, as suspected, had stopping working as it should. Malcolm's emergency draining of the fluid which had been pressing on Sam's brain had very probably saved his life, and neurosurgeon Nick Blethyn had found that the shunt was now too short, following Sam's recent spurt of growth to his adult height of 154 centimetres.
    Dr Blethyn had replaced it with a shunt of the correct length, and physically Sam had handled the surgery well. Full precautions had been taken against triggering another allergic reaction to latex. Vinyl gloves, silk tape and plastic catheters had been used. Sam had regained consciousness the previous morning, although it wasn't yet known how much, if any, permanent brain damage he'd sustained. So far, the signs were good.
    Further tests showed that the fluid was now moving through the new shunt properly, and it would be checked again at intervals, with a series of X-rays over the entire length of the shunt and tubing.
    This morning, Sam was well enough to have the upper end of the bed raised, and he could manage a light and mostly liquid diet. He was also well enough to disdain such a diet and was insisting to a nurse when Lucy walked in, 'Take it away! Yuck!'
    The blonde nurse, Sally, whom Lucy knew by this time from one or two lunches at the same table in the hospital dining room, was unperturbed by his rudeness.
    'You're doing great, Sam,' she said cheerfully. 'I love it when you guys get hungry. Then I know you're really on the mend!'
    'So can I have eggs?'
    'No!' she taunted him gently. 'Maybe tomorrow. Ask your doctor when