“Food. Drink. Anything.”

I push my plate away. I’ve been enjoying hanging out with Farah and I don’t like being reminded how wrong things are.

Farah seems to have the same thought. “Some last meal, huh?”

We fall silent. In the ordinary world, people come and go, load their trays, make phone calls while they wait for their sick relatives. But they’re not here. It’s just the building and the chairs and tables that somehow inhabit both worlds.

“I’m sorry I was such a cow in swimming lessons,” Farah says.

I swallow and look away. I’m surprised by how anxious she seems, the catch in her voice like there’s something irritating the back of her throat.

“You’re OK, Kyle,” she continues. “That’s all I was trying to say when I mentioned it earlier. I didn’t mean to make a joke of it, I do that sometimes, it’s stupid.”

“Forget it,” I say. “It’s no big deal.” I smile thinly and hope that she realizes what I say next is a joke. “I’d actually kind of forgotten until you mentioned it.”

Farah smiles. “That’s what I thought. I mean, I bet you ask girls out all the time, right?”

“All the time,” I say, loftily.

“So how many girls have you asked out? That you can remember, I mean.”

“Oh … hundreds.”

“Have any of them ever said yes?”

“Not one of them,” I reply, deadpan.

Farah laughs and I laugh with her. It feels so easy here I don’t understand how it always used to feel so hard in the ordinary world.

“I do wish we’d got to know each other back then though,” she says.

“Swimming lessons would have been less crap,” I agree.

“I had a bit of a thing going on,” Farah says. “It wasn’t personal. I wasn’t very nice to anybody.” She looks pained. “Was I really horrible?”

“Only to teachers.”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t like people who put themselves in positions of authority.”

I laugh at this and Farah frowns quizzically.

“That was literally their job,” I say.

“And your point is?” Farah replies.

She glances away, a moment of doubt. I never really spoke to girls at school; I never really spoke to anyone. I was always too worried about saying the wrong thing or having nothing to say or messing up my words and making a fool of myself. I wish I’d tried harder, but somehow I always thought there was more time.

“You know you’re probably just a figment of my imagination,” Farah says, forcing a crisp into her mouth and chewing it like she’s chewing cotton wool.

I grin.

“What?” Farah says.

“You’re dying and you’re fantasizing about me,” I say.

“In your dreams, weirdo!” She throws her crisp at me. “Besides, if that’s right, then you’re fantasizing about me as well.”

I smile, and say breezily, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

This is too much for her and she’s lost in hilarity, thumping her chest and gasping for air. I can’t quite believe my audacity. But then: why not? It’s starting to look as if I really did waste my entire life like I was always afraid I might. I may as well try to enjoy whatever little bit I have left.

On the next ward along, we find an annex where people with private medical insurance go. It’s almost identical to the regular wards but smaller and nicer. Farah hops on to the bed and lies primly, smoothing down her shirt so she looks neat and tidy, tucking a few loose strands of hair behind her ear. She shoots me a meaningful look.

“Is it bad news, doctor?” she says, in a mock innocent voice.

“I’m afraid there’s good news and bad news, Ms Rafiq.”

“The bad news?”

“I’m sorry to say we’re going to have to amputate your right leg.”

Farah holds her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my! And the good news?”

“The lady from bed six had her left leg amputated last week and she’d like to buy your spare slipper.”

Farah snorts. “That’s old… That’s…”

Her words fade and she looks bleakly at me. I know what she’s thinking: we’re exhausted, but neither of us wants to mention sleep. I guess sleep is still something we need in this world, but I don’t want to sleep because I don’t know if the world will still be here when I wake up.

I think about the last electrical eddies and currents flying around my dying brain. A fractured, wounded brain state creating a broken half-finished world. It’s not so different to regular life: we don’t know how or when it’s going to end. All we know is that it can’t last.

I hope that it comes without warning, I think. While we’re laughing.

“Another game of bed-bowls?” Farah says, recovering and offering me her hand.

“Why not?” I reply.

I take her hand, a dainty parody, Downton Abbey-style, parading towards the corridor.

And then we stop.

The blood drains from my legs. It feels as if the air has been drawn from the room, my throat clenching at vacuum.

A small boy stands in the doorway.

“Hello?” he says, tentatively.

I try to breathe but I can’t, I can only gasp. Farah and I are still holding hands but it’s not for comic effect anymore. I feel her fingers tighten around my own. So this is it, I think. Death is a little East Asian kid in a Spiderman T-shirt.