The diary is fourteen boxes, one a day, with a line at the end of each week for the hours. Lorna did not post it. She drove over with it, said it had come to her from the office, and told you twice: the whole fortnight, all of it, honestly. Nobody at the DWP or on the helpline has ever been able to tell you whether sitting up with him at two in the morning counts as care or is just being his brother. Whatever you write, you will be the one who wrote it. She is back in her car before you think to ask which office she meant.
The Fortnight Diary