Quarter Past 4

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The clock on the wall is broken. It chokes backwards,its voice cracking. He sits in the armchair. I don’t know where I am. His eyes are blank. There’s condensation on the windows behind him. My mum opens and closes her mouth. Let’s get you back to your room, she says, already putting her palms on the wheelchair. Her voice is raspy, as though speaking into a fan. I memorise the carpet’s pattern on the floor: circles, lots of circles.

The hands haven’t moved. The clock hiccups some more. It’s half past 9 at quarter past 4.