A card.

Did you get our card? Helen asked, as if receipt of the card itself would improve my health, not to say my morals.

I got the card. I spent far too long studying the graphology of the signatures. Clearly, Helen had rallied the troops. This was obvious in Neil's impatient scrawl. Yet Gareth's signature was a revelation. He signed his name, then drew a circle round it. There we have it, definitive proof. The man really does live in a bubble! I took an overlong, teenage glee in this, and spent the rest of the day in bed, reading Chekhov. Illness has rendered me, my life, defunct.