‘That little boy looks like my father-in-law,’ I say. ‘Which one?’ Jasmine asks and I point to a child with a port-wine stain on his forehead and eyelid. ‘Oh, you know Davey Hunter?’ I take a short gasp of air but, before I can reply, a sudden, high-pitched noise rings out around the room, snagging everyone’s attention. Only when it’s followed by a thumping sound do I realise it’s Precious, banging her fists against the armrests of her wheelchair. Her squeal is as shrill as a smoke alarm.
