Owl with dreamcatcher and roses on thigh

Third night on nights now and I've stopped pretending I sleep in the daytime. The ward at Carrow Hill goes quiet around two, and that's when the owl comes to the window ledge outside bay four. Sister Okafor says it's been coming since the autumn, a tawny with a split in one ear, and she leaves the sluice door propped so Mr Pryce in the end bed can watch it without the lamp on.

Mr Pryce is ninety-one and was a herring man out of Whitby, a long time ago. He told me the owl is his late wife come back to check whether he's eaten his tea. I said I'd tell her he had it, and he laughed so hard the monitor alarmed. Last night he asked me to tie the old dreamcatcher from his bag to the blind cord so the feathers would stir when the air came through the vents. Three feathers on beaded thread, grey gone soft at the tips. I did it with a clove hitch because it was the only knot I could remember from Guides.

At four the bird turned its head right round, the way they do, and looked straight at the wire web swinging in the draught. Mr Pryce said, "She's counting the holes," and went back to sleep with his mouth open. I stood there with the drip chart in my hand and thought about how careful you have to be with anything you hang up to catch something.

Hope the boys are behaving. Post me the good scissors if you can find them, Mum has hidden them again.

Love, Jo