The exception had been in his glove box for six years, renewed twice. The laminate was beginning to separate at one corner. He had meant to get a new one printed. He had not gotten a new one printed.
She had called three days ago to tell him he should not come. The drive was too long, she had said, and she did not want him to see the room. He had said: all right. He had not said anything else. He had started driving the next morning.
The Act had come into force eleven years ago. Its formal title was the Physical Contact Regulatory Framework. What it required, in practice, was that any non-incidental touch between adults who were not registered partners or registered family be supported by a contact license. Most people held a standard social license, which covered brief greetings. Anything sustained required a higher category.
Grief-touch exceptions were in Schedule 4. They required a named beneficiary, a relationship declaration of not less than seven years, and a signed statement from the applicant describing the intended care. Boro had written: I intend to hold her hand when she is dying. The office had stamped it. He had renewed it twice.
He had not thought about the fact that she had listed him too until two years ago, when the Act was being discussed on the news and she had said, almost as an aside: I put you in mine. He had said: I put you in mine. Neither of them had said anything more about it.
The hospice checked the paperwork at the door. It took four minutes. A woman walked him down a corridor and opened a door.
Neve was awake. She looked at him and said: I told you not to come.
He pulled the chair beside the bed and sat down.
He took her hand.