Her blonde glinting hair was charred, her face swollen and horribly burnt. Two doctors were talking about percentage of BSA and I realised they were discussing the percentage of her body that was burnt. Twenty-five per cent.

‘Jenny?’ I shouted. But she didn’t open her eyes. Was she deaf to me too? Or was she unconscious? I hoped that she was, because her pain would be unbearable.

I left the room, just for a moment. A drowning person coming up for one gulp of air before going back into that depth of compassion as I looked at her. I stood in the corridor and closed my eyes.

‘Mum?’

I’d know her voice anywhere.

I looked down at a girl crouched in the corridor, her arms around her knees.

The girl I’d recognise among a thousand faces.

My second heartbeat.

I put my arms around her.

‘What are we, Mum?’

‘I don’t know, sweetheart.’

It may seem strange, but I didn’t even really wonder. The fire had burnt away everything I once thought of as normal. Nothing made sense any more.

A trolley with Jenny’s body on it was wheeled past us; surrounded by medical staff. They’d covered her up using a sheet like a tent so the fabric wouldn’t touch her burns.

Beside me I felt her flinch.

‘Did you see your body?’ I asked. ‘Before they covered it, I mean.’

I’d tried to let out the words delicately but they fell with a clump on the floor, forming a boorish, brutal question.

‘Yeah, I did. “Return of the living dead” kind of summarises it, doesn’t it?’

‘Jen, sweetheart-’

‘This morning I was worried about blackheads on my nose. Blackheads. How ridiculous is that, Mum?’

I tried to comfort her, but she shook her head. She wanted me to ignore her tears and believe the act she was putting on. Needed me to. The one where she is still funny, lively, buoyant Jenny.