Watching Helen, my assistant, wheel it in, I try to work out exactly when I stopped caring. Over the years as a pathologist I’ve detached myself more and more from the bodies. To the point where I just see myself as the end of a production line. Somewhere I understand these used to be “hes” and “shes” but to me they’re just “its”.

Helen’s going through the procedures and droning on about gender “Female”, age “around 28” and some other unimportant details. I put on my listening face “name, unknown” and think about asking her out on a date “cause of death, unknown”. If I get this one out the way quickly I might be back home before 6:30 “oh, look, she’s got a tattoo a bit like yours.”

Suddenly I’m back in the room, and I’m actually looking at her and instantly I know Helen’s wrong. The tattoo isn’t a bit like mine, it’s exactly like mine. I brush brown hair away from the face and whisper “Sophie”. This can’t be coincidence, someone found me, one of us is still playing the game.