Her eyes meet mine for a second and then skate away. Maybe she doesn’t remember me?

I take out my phone and then remember that it’s dead. “Do you have a charger?” I ask. “My phone’s not working.”

Farah shakes her head ever so slightly. The same way she used to shake her head when I tried to say hello at the pool. “Sorry. Mine too.”

I kind of half turn in my seat, looking around like I’m searching for the official phone-charger guy. “Maybe we should ask someone, we could borrow—”

“I don’t think it’s that,” Farah says.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think a charger will help.”

I open my mouth but no words come out. Something about the look in her eyes makes me anxious. I recognize that look: I see it in myself sometimes after a seizure. Stunned. I wonder why she’s here. She was supposed to have been cured back when she was thirteen.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Getting my nails done, how about you?” she replies without a pause.

I groan inwardly. I should have a witty response for this. “Tonsils,” I should say. But that’s the kind of snappy one-liner I only think of about an hour after the conversation is over.

She taps the side of her head. “Tumour,” she explains.

“I thought they cured that,” I say.

“So did I,” she says. “But I didn’t come here for the view, did I?”

What was it? I wonder. What clued her into the fact that something was wrong? An unexpected seizure? A sudden weakness on one side? Blind spots? Something had alerted her to the fact that it was still growing silently inside her. She was the school bad girl and nobody could tell her what to do, but when your brain sends you to see the head teacher, you go, even if you’re Farah Rafiq.

“What about you?” she asks.

“Epilepsy,” I reply.

“Yeah, I remember.”

“I had a seizure. Earlier this morning, I mean.”

I don’t know why I still feel ashamed when I tell people I had a seizure, like it’s my fault, like it means I’m weak.

“Do you always come to the hospital after a seizure?”

“No,” I say. Defensive.

She’s watching me. No, not watching me, studying me. She leans closer, like she’s about to tell me a secret and I realize for the first time how pale she is.

“What was different this time?” she asks.

“I … nothing.”

Her mouth pinches in that small, sad smile she has. She turns away.

“I don’t see you in school anymore, do I?”

“I’m doing retakes online. At home,” I explain.

“Oh yeah.” She smirks. “It’s your fault I got an eight instead of a nine in maths, you know that?”

My heart sinks.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble. I haven’t spoken to anyone who was in that maths exam since it happened but I have every reason to believe they all hate me. It’s the last thing you want, isn’t it? Someone causing a drama when you’re trying to concentrate on geometry.

“Forget it,” she says, softening. “I’m just winding you up. Anyway, we all applied for special consideration on account of the disruption you caused. You’re a hero to a lot of people.”

I half laugh and for an instant she gives me a surprisingly warm smile. “What’s it like doing retakes at home?” she asks.

“It’s OK. Convenient.”

“Don’t you miss people? Going out?”

I should lie and tell her I go out all the time. I should tell her that I’ve made older friends who’re working and who play in a band and when they move to London I’m going to go with them.

“I don’t really get out much,” I say. “Um … at all.”

“You’re a shut-in?”

It’s so abrupt I don’t know how to respond.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean… I got a bit like that after I was sick. I didn’t want to leave the house. Couldn’t leave the house. That’s just what I called it.”

“The Japanese call it Hikikomori,” I say. “It means someone who avoids social contact. It’s a real thing.”

Farah doesn’t say anything. I stare hard at the ticket in my hand in order to hide my embarrassment.

756. Definitely 756.

Still, I feel better for having someone to talk to, even if it is Farah. I take a shaky breath. Maybe it’s OK, I think. All that weirdness – the lack of people, the blurry vision, the strange man who spoke to me – maybe it was all in my head. Maybe I’m starting to feel better.

“What number are you?” I say.

“755,” she says.

“How long have you been waiting?”

“About nine days.”

FIVE