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some tea. Your last cup went cold. Do you take milk and sugar?”
    “What?” I turn towards him and spot the full cup of cold tea on the bedside table. He must have brought it for me, but by the time he got back I was spark out. And soon will be again if I have any say in it. I gather my wits enough to answer his question. I am not yet so far gone that I would turn down a cup of tea, “What? Yes. Milk please. And two sugars.” My reply comes out as a rasping croak, but it’s the best I can summon up.
    Matt gives me a curt nod and leaves the room. Now it’s just me and the good doctor.
    “Just a few quick checks, then we’ll see what we need to do about you. Could you just lift your T-shirt at the back please and breathe in ?”
    I do as she has asked and the medic places the business end of her stethoscope behind my left shoulder blade, then moves it to the right. She continues to listen to my breathing, repeating the checks several times before moving round to my heartbeat. She smiles at me as she checks my temperature, then my blood pressure, an attempt to reassure I expect. I’m impressed at the effort the doctor is making over her bedside manner. I daresay I’m not the most sweet smelling patient she’s dealt with recently but she manages to conceal any distaste.
    We both glance up as Matt returns carrying a steaming mug which he places on the bedside table. I manage a smile, by way of thanking him.
    “Are you asthmatic, Beth? Or any history of it in your family?” The doctor is keen to press on.
    “No.”
    “And how long have you been feeling unwell?”
    For ever. “A few days.” It’s hard to tell sometimes, because I defy anyone living rough to ever feel ‘well’ exactly. I don’t bother to try to explain that. These more acute symptoms began perhaps a week ago.
    “You have a persistent cough, I can hear that. Sore throat?”
    I nod.
    “What else?”
    “Headache. In fact, everywhere aches. I feel cold all the time, shivery. And tired. I have no energy at all.”
    “Right. I see.” The doctor looks concerned, uncertain.
    “Do you know what’s wrong with me, Doctor?”
    “I’d say you have the flu.”
    “Right, so not too serious then?”
    “Well, in your circumstances, it could be. The illness has already triggered a chest infection which is affecting both sides, upper and lower. I bet you’ve been feeling pretty poorly for the last few days, haven’t you?
    I shrug, but don’t deny it.
    “The chest infection should respond to antibiotics. I’ll write you a prescription.”
    “Okay…” So what’s she not telling me?
    “I could get you admitted to LGI.”
    “LGI?” This from Matt, lounging against the wall on my other side and showing no sign of leaving me to talk to the doctor in private.
    The doctor is repacking her medical gadgetry. “Leeds General Infirmary. I could get Beth onto a ward there for the next week or so, just until the lung infection is settled down again.”
    “I thought you said antibiotics would do it. Does she need nursing care too?”
    “Not as such. But in Beth’s circumstances…” She turns to me again. “I understand you’ve been sleeping rough?”
    I nod.
    “That’s why we’re seeing these complications. You need the antibiotics, but you also need bed rest, warmth, some decent food. You need a bit of TLC, Miss Harte, and you won’t get that sleeping in shop doorways in the middle of December.”
    “I see.” I do indeed see, but that won’t make any difference. When I leave the cocoon of Matt Logan’s spare room it will be the shop doorways for me again, if I’m lucky.
    “In hospital they would monitor your condition, but the main thing is you’d be warm and dry and properly fed. If you go back out on the streets before you’re fully recovered you’ll just get ill again.”
    “I…”
    “She doesn’t need to go back out, not for a while.”
    Both the doctor and I turn to look at Matt.
    “Beth can stay here. This room does nothing