Back in hospital…

The first thing you become aware of, as you drift slowly back to earth, is the beeping.

A high-pitched tone that pierces through your ears every few seconds. It takes you too long to realise that it’s just your own pulse monitor, and that it’s probably a good sign.

You keep your eyes closed against the glare for a few more moments, then crack them open reluctantly. Harsh, tropical sunshine comes bouncing off the white walls, and you groan, shifting away from the light.

The girl next to your bed awakens with a start.

‘James?’ she whispers tenderly, and you find yourself expecting to see a different face.

An older face. A harsher face. Your ex-girlfriend’s face.

But as Emma Watson’s unmistakeable features swim into view, you find yourself silently thanking God that this wasn’t all some hideous fever dream.

‘I can’t touch you yet,’ Emma whispers. Her hands are twisted in her lap, and her cheeks are red and swollen; she’s obviously been crying. ‘You were so beaten up… and the virus…’

It’s like someone’s tipped a bucket of ice water over your head.

You flinch away from her, disturbing the IV hooked up to your arm. ‘Oh, shit – sorry, Em, I’m so sorry…’