“Yes,” Stephen says, after only the slightest pause. It had come up with Ellie a bit, but he’d been as safely flippant as he could be in answering (why not both?). It had felt important at the time to project calm competence and an unflappable demeanour, as if he had no reservations about taking the role. He was filling capable shoes; he needed to look and sound the part, particularly when making the public announcement.

But here, in Gwenaëlle’s parlour with the cat purring at her feet and the lanterns a warm glow, he can be a little more honest:

“It feels like going backward, a little, and knowing that I’m lesser than I was. I’d been unshakeable, once. Aiming a straight shot to become head of neurosurgery, hitting all the milestones at an accelerated pace, knowing I was the best — frankly, yes, one of the best — in my field. Which isn’t arrogance, it’s just fact. It was a small specialty, you knew where you stood. Now—”

Now he requires others like Gwenaëlle and Derrica to be his hands for him. To take over where he can’t.

“Now, I have to adapt. Figure out how I can still be of use when I can’t do the things which are traditionally part of the profession.”

It’d be easy to continue pretend-busying himself with the paperwork, but he’s sifted through as much of it as he can. So his gaze drifts to her face instead, and that golden eye. “I need to practice,” he says, echoing her words a year ago, “accommodating the blind spot.”

They’re both very good at adapting, and rolling with the punches.