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three chairs up the ward by myself. The cot side is down and Hannah is sitting on the bed holding Granma’s hand and crying under her hair so she can’t help me. She is such a show-off, I can’t believe it. George is looking at all the gadgets and oxygen and alarm buttons and things at the top of Granma’s bed, so it’s only Dad and me who need the chairs. I end up at the bottom of the bed, miles away from Granma. We’re all arranged round this body but Granma couldn’t care less, she doesn’t even know we exist. I wonder if she knows she exists herself, but thinking about that does my head in. 
    We sit there for a while but Granma doesn’t say anything or move, except for her mouth which is kind of chewing but she’s not eating anything. There’s a plastic beaker like a baby’s feeding cup on her table with cold tea in it and Mum tries to give her some but it dribbles down her chin and Mum puts it back on the table. It’s dead quiet. Nobody knows what to say. You can’t chat about the weather or the football or anything, not that I’m interested. Dad stands up and gives Granma a kiss on her cheek, not like he really cares or anything. 
    â€œThere’s nothing we can do here. Let’s go home.” 
    He sounds really sad and I hold his arm and Hannah gives me a look like she’s sorry for me. Bet she’s only jealous. 
    â€œBut Dad, we’ve only just got here,” says George who’s interested in the machines and is working out how to use the radio and the headphones. Or at least that’s what I think they are. They could be the life support system for all I know. 
    Dad heads off down the ward and we all get up to follow him. Mum puts her arm round Hannah, who’s still crying, and leads her gently towards the door. George drops the headphones and runs after them. 
    â€œTake back those chairs,” says Mum, turning back to me. I don’t see why it’s my job when nobody else fetched chairs, but I do it anyway. The nurse is there again watching that I put them back properly and I wonder why she’s got nothing better to do than look at me like I don’t belong visiting, when hospitals are meant to be there for people like Granma and us. I realise I haven’t said anything to Granma and on the way back I go to her bed for a last time and have a good look at her, and she isn’t moving her mouth any more. She’s fallen asleep, and her eyes are closed. For a minute I think she’s dead, but you can still see her breathing. 
    I make myself take in her wrinkled face and the hair, short and white and thin so you can see her scalp through it, and her arm on top of the sheet, skin on top of bone so you can see the elbow joint, and her hand’s a claw gripping nothing. And I smell her old person smell and disinfectant and wee and hear the sounds of the relatives and the tea trolley coming to take away the tea she’ll never drink, and I wonder about how it will be when I’m old and can’t do anything and I’m going to die. 
    â€œBye, Granma,” I say, and my voice sounds funny and I realise she won’t be able to hear me. I force myself to pick up her scraggy hand. It’s really light and cool, and I can feel the bones underneath the wrinkly skin. Then I put it back down on the sheet and make myself turn away from her. The last thing I hear is her catching her breath and making a little noise in her throat. I pull back the curtain and go on down the ward to catch the others up. That nurse is still looking and I think about sticking my tongue out at her but I decide not to give her the satisfaction of thinking she’s right about me and the whole teenage race, and instead I do my