“Lucas,” Ms Morgan said gently from the doorway, “is there anyone else helping you today?” He looked up. “Mrs Khan’s been here. The care worker came this morning, and someone else is supposed to come later.” MsMsorgan nodded and asked whether she could speak with Eleanor once she had finished eating. Lucas agreed. Mr Mrnce remained just beyond the door. He felt as though he had walked into a conversation already taking place for a very long time, one in which he had been confidently declaring the answers without understanding the questions. He looked at Eleanor’s face, the equipment beside the bed, and the small girl waiting patiently for her brother’s attention. Then he looked at Lucas, who was concentrating so completely on helping his mother that he had momentarily forgotten the presence of the teacher he’d feared all morning.

When Lucas finished, he brought the bowl into the kitchen and placed it in the sink. Mr Vance followed him. He wanted to say something, but the ordinary words available to him seemed inadequate. He looked at the table again, this time reading the papers rather than merely noticing their disorder. A letter from the council requested information about outstanding payments. Another explained a reassessment of financial support. A rehabilitation appointment had been rescheduled because the family had been unable to arrange transport. Beside these lay a receipt for electricity credit, a supermarket shopping list with several items crossed out, and a small envelope marked Sophie’s Christmas. The envelope contained a few coins and two five-pound notes. MMrVance looked away before Lucas noticed him reading it.

“How long has your mother been like this?” he asked.

“Since July.”

“And you’re helping care for her?”

Lucas nodded. “There’s a care team. They come at set times. Mr Mrshan helps when she can.”

Mr Mrnce looked toward the bedroom. “What about your father?”

Lucas continued washing the bowl. For several seconds, he said nothing. “He doesn’t live with us.”

“Does he help?”

“Sometimes.” Lucas set the bowl on the draining board. “Not really.”

“Do you have other family nearby?”

“My mum’s sister lives in Manchester. She came when Mum was in hospital, but she’s got children and work. She calls.”

Mr Mrce nodded slowly. He looked at the young man’s hands. The skin around his knuckles was cracked, and a thin reddish line marked his wrist. “What happened there?”

Lucas followed his gaze. “Work.”