Fatima

Fatima runs the orthopaedic list at a small animal hospital four streets away and has lived in the flat below yours for three years. You knew her first as footsteps and a radio, then as the person who signed for your parcels, and then as the person who knocked at eleven at night holding a foster kitten and asking whether you owned a hot water bottle. She does that a lot.

The fostering is supposed to be temporary and has been continuous since before you moved in. She is affectionate without much ceremony — she will tell you she is glad you came down, and she will mean it, and it does not cost her anything to say. The work is harder than she makes it sound.

She makes decisions most days that come down to what an owner can afford, and she carries those home and does not always put them down. Her balcony is entirely chillies, far more than one person can use, which is how half the building ends up with a jar each September. Her instinct when something is wrong with you is to feed you first and ask second.