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I waited for more but he had finished.
    â€˜But it didn’t,’ I remarked.
    â€˜Didn’t what?’ he asked.
    â€˜Didn’t come. Death didn’t come.’
    He shrugged.
    â€˜Maybe you are meant to be here,’ I said.
    â€˜Meant?’
    â€˜Meant to survive. You are here and the odds of you two surviving in that lifeboat for the weeks we surmise it was … and the chances of you washing up here …’
    â€˜Meant to be?’ she interrupted and I was surprised by the anger in her voice: sharp, mean.
    â€˜This is “meant to be”?’ she demanded, gesturing to the white walls and hard floors. ‘This is meant to be?’ she rapped on her skull, furious, flinging herself up from her chair. ‘Nothing is meant to be. I don’t believe anything is meant to be. What do you mean by that?’
    She gripped the edge of my desk, trying to stare me down. It had been an offhand comment, meant only to comfort them, to be positive. Simplistic, I admit – perhaps just my youth betraying me. I leant back, fiddling nervously with my pen.
    â€˜No, I don’t mean that, literally—’
    â€˜Then what do you mean? Literally?’
    â€˜I don’t … it’s just … I don’t know – I would like to know why …’ I stuttered, trying to put into words vague ideas and feelings.
    â€˜Why what?’ she demanded.
    â€˜Well, why here? Why you remember nothing. Why the two of you. I mean, it’s strange; don’t you want to know?’
    They were both silent so I stumbled on alone, with a feeling that I was only going to make it worse.
    â€˜Hasn’t it occurred to you that you could be related, you could be husband and wife?’
    She turned away.
    â€˜Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think I’d remember my own husband? My God, what sort of fool do you think I am?’
    â€˜You have forgotten everything else.’
    â€˜Not everything – not everything,’ she snarled at me, tossing her head, her hair twisting like spitting snakes.
    â€˜Well, you tell me you have forgotten everything and anything is possible when nothing is certain,’ I said.
    Her eyes narrowed and for a moment I thought: this tiny woman is going to fly at my throat. Her hands clutched the air in front of my face. Then he spoke.
    â€˜Leave the child alone, she is only doing her job.’
    The cold wave of his voice washed over her and she shrank back, her spitting snakes again just the grey locks of an old lady, her hands subsiding to her sides.
    â€˜Leave her alone,’ he repeated, turning from the window, striding back to his chair. The mist had gone from his eyes. He sat down and pushed her back into her seat. She collapsed like a folding chair. He looked me in the eye.
    â€˜I do want to know. I want to know who I am,’ he said, and turned to her. ‘Though, God forbid, madam, that you should be my wife.’
    He winked surreptitiously at me, a smile flickering about his face. I looked down at my paperwork, unsure if it was professional to smile back at him as I wanted to. She snorted.
    â€˜There is much to find out; everyone has a past, we must too,’ he continued.
    â€˜Not us – all we have is dreams,’ she said.
    â€˜Then pity those who have none. Remember, it is only because something has happened to us. Some accident. It’s still all there, inside our heads. And although dreams are not our pasts, not who we are, it is all we have. We should consider it a place to start.’
    â€˜I do not want a life built on dreams,’ she said.
    â€˜Then I pity you, for that is all anyone has. And think of it,’ said he, wiggling his eyebrows comically. ‘You could then have a dream house, a dream job, the man of your dreams.’
    â€˜But that’s all they are,’ she retorted. ‘Just dreams.’
    â€˜And dreams can be what we