It’s gone midnight when I sit cross legged on my bed with the letter on my lap. Smooth, all clear font and clean print. I pick it up and tear it, sentence by sentence, carefully folding the words in on themselves. Small parcels of medical jargon and descriptions of symptoms; I tuck them into my mouth, under my tongue, into the pockets of my cheeks. I let the words sink in. Then I swallow them down, careful, gentle, to keep the words in order. They sit lead-like, pebbles on a stony beach, as I digest the complex concepts. The ink tastes like anaesthetic.