Muse hasn’t left my bedside for days: she races around the garden when I sleep: it’s the only time she leaves, she’s so loyal. A few days ago, I heard Muse barking in the garden; I knew she’d seen the woodpecker again. I’ve learnt the differences in her voice: this is what comes of weeks bedbound. But when the sedatives wear off I can do more than lie there: I can feel the touch from my grandma, I can smell last night’s family supper, I’m lucid. Yesterday, the electroconvulsive therapy shocked my brain today, my muscles feel as knotted as my oesophagus. I’m on my back now; my only company is the ceiling; not even the canopy of stars I once gazed at with joy.