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hand is warm from the heat of the hot tea in her mug.

      ‘The NHS will send letters for people who have received donated organs, so you can say thank you to the family. Did you know that?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘The nurses will probably tell you. But I looked it up.’ She lets go of my hand and twists to take the phone out from the back pocket of her jeans, then concentrates on that as I sip my tea.

      Every sensation seems to be more intense; even drinking tea is improved by a healthy heart.

      She looks up. ‘Here.’ She holds out her phone, tilting it to show me the screen. I take the phone and look at the NHS leaflet. It says what she has just told me – I can write to the person’s family and say thank you. It encourages me to do that. But I can’t tell them my name.

      ‘Do you think you’ll do that?’ Chloe asks.

      I hand back the phone and sense someone else reaching out with me. I can’t explain the feeling. If I could describe it better perhaps others might believe in a sixth sense. ‘Probably. I would like to say thank you.’

      If I write, I will tell the family that I can have children now. The soul inside my heart has given me that chance.

      When I hold the front door open just under an hour later, standing on the doorstep and waving to Chloe, before she turns the corner at the end of the street, the spirit is whispering. I can’t understand the words but the sound surrounds me.

      Perhaps the spirit wants me to contact their family before they pass on?

      I shut the door. The silence in the house is deafening – as though silence is the loudest noise.

      Chloe turned the radio off when we were talking. I like sound.

      I smile as I turn the radio on, because I recognise how quickly I walked along the hall.

      A dance song is playing, the bass beat stirs my shoulders into a little shake. The zip of stitches in my chest shoots a sharp pain through my torso that makes me wince. But I smile at the same time. ‘Enough of that for now, but soon I’ll be able to do everything.’ That is what I’ll write about in my thank you card, about the chance of children and dancing.

      A buzz hums in my blood, drowning out the beat of the heart. Excitement is a dance rhythm of its own.

      I sit at the kitchen table and pull over my laptop. Then open my phone and look at the list of links in my search of obituaries.

      Who did this heart come from?

      What has it felt before?

      What life has it known?

      The whispering intensifies, but it is still too muffled to work out any words.

      The soul wants me to know who it is. I know that.

       Chapter 6

       3 weeks and 2 days after the fall.

      ‘Tea.’ The shout comes through the glossy white bedroom door.

      ‘Come in,’ I shout to Simon as I click to close the laptop’s browser window. The laptop’s lid snaps down like a crocodile’s bite as the door opens. I put the laptop aside on the bed next to me and adjust the pillows I am leaning on, as he puts a mug of tea down on the bedside chest.

      The smell of hot tea says good morning and stirs up a déjà vu moment that makes a feeling of safety clasp at my heart.

      ‘Has Chloe confirmed she’s coming in to make you lunch today?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Good. I know we can make you a sandwich ahead of time, but I’ll worry if you are here all day on your own.’

      ‘I’m fine. I managed before the operation.’

      ‘With difficulty.’

      ‘I know, but I’m getting better every day.’

      A smile pulls at his lips and his hand lifts and runs over my hair. It’s a gesture that’s most common when he’s with the boys now. But it’s a gesture I have known for as long as I can remember. I think Simon has always felt like a father to me and I have always looked up to him. We are not a normal brother and sister. But who would be normal after our childhood?

      The bed dips as he sits on the edge. He holds my hand. ‘Your eyes have dark circles. Did you sleep?’

      ‘Not much. I’m too excited.’ I smile. ‘And thank you for pointing out I have bags under my eyes.’

      His eyes open wider and his eyebrows lift as he squeezes my hand but he doesn’t answer my comment. ‘Where are your tablets?’

      ‘Downstairs in the cupboard. But it’s not because of that. Everything has changed – anyone would be excited.’ It is not a bipolar episode.

      ‘I know. But you can take your tablets with the tea.’ He squeezes my hand again then lets go and stands up. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

      ‘Okay.’

      I rest back on the pillows, looking at the plain ceiling, remembering the bumpy or swirly Artex ceilings I stared at when I was younger. Patterns on the ceiling or in the curtains became mythical creatures. Fairies. Trolls. Unicorns. Dragons. There is no fictional image in Simon’s smooth replastered ceiling.

      ‘Pills.’ He walks into the room rattling the bottle like a maraca. His other hand holds out the packets. ‘Here.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      He’s left the door open and the noise of the boys talking to Mim at the breakfast table downstairs flows in.

      ‘What will you do today?’

      A shrug lifts my shoulders.

      He sits on the edge of the bed again. Many hours of our relationship have been spent in this position on hospital, hostel, foster or children’s homes’ beds.

      ‘What were you looking at on the laptop?’

      ‘Nothing really.’

      A smile. He knows me too well. ‘Binge watch a boxset to stop yourself from becoming impatient with the immobility. It will stop you getting obsessed with something unhealthy.’

      ‘I’ll be mobile soon, so I have a reason to be impatient.’ I lean forward and hold his hand. ‘And as soon as I am mobile I won’t have time to become unhealthily obsessed with anything. I’ll be too busy being healthy.’

      A deep-pitched laugh rumbles low in his throat. ‘The boys have some video games you could play?’

      ‘For four-year-olds. No, thank you.’

      His hand slides out of mine. ‘I’d better get off to work.’ He stands.

      I reach up, encouraging him to lean down for a hug.

      He kisses my cheek as I kiss his. ‘Have a good day.’

      ‘You too.’

      ‘Oh, I will.’ I smile.

      He strokes my cheek.

      When the door shuts behind him, I open the laptop again. All the pages I have been looking at are open browser tabs: obituaries posted by local and national papers.

      I click on the picture of a middle-aged, middle-weight man with a receding hairline at his temples.

      I am reading the obituaries of the people who died on the day of my operation, or the day before it.

      The man lived in a small town in Wales, not far from Cardiff.

      How far would they move a heart around the country?

      I

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