“Jem Pardon, thirty-two years old,” Bob said, once she’d been settled and a nurse was hooking up the monitors. “Mild indications of smoke inhalation after a house fire, but severe exacerbation of chronic asthma. Initial sats were eighty-one, now ninety after back-to-back nebulisers and hydrocortisone IV. Resps are up at twenty-four, tachy at one-thirty plus. I know she’s been vented at least twice, and she has a specialist care plan here.”

“We’ve fast-bleeped Respiratory,” a doctor said. “Cheers, Bob.”

Bob threw his paperwork onto his empty stretcher and put his hands on Rosie’s shoulders. “This is Rosie. She also needs checking over at some point, but she appears spry enough for now.” He ushered her into a chair and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. “I’ll be back to see you both in a bit.”

Rosie nodded, overwhelmed by the cacophony of monitor alarms and the press of too many bodies in too close a space. She was out of her depth here, unfamiliar with the equipment, the terminology, and the staff, and she couldn’t simply show her warrant card and demand answers in an environment where her uniform held little sway. She had rarely been ill as a child—the usual bouts of chicken pox and snotty noses were the only things she remembered—and her good health had followed her into adulthood. She couldn’t imagine herself in Jem’s position, managing an illness that could put her in Resus at the drop of a hat, joking about chocolate at B&Q one minute and fighting for her life the next.

From where Rosie was sitting, she could only catch glimpses of Jem, but nothing she was hearing sounded good. She stood up and chanced a couple of steps to her right, keeping her back to the cubicle’s curtain. Everyone remained engrossed in their respective tasks, and no one scolded her or sent her back to the chair. No one even seemed to notice, aside from Jem, who waited until a doctor had drawn a blood sample from her wrist, and then beckoned Rosie over.

“Do you want me to phone your dad?” Rosie asked.

Jem shook her head. “He’ll worry.”

“Is this not worth worrying about?” Every number on the screen was red and flashing, and Jem’s sats were back to hovering in the high eighties.

“Been worse,” Jem said, with grim pragmatism. A rapid clack of heels sounded outside the curtain, and she looked past Rosie with obvious trepidation. The curtain was whipped aside without ceremony, and Rosie clamped her mouth shut, aware that she was staring.

“What the bloody hell have you two been up to this time?” Harriet Lacey said, scanning the notes on Jem’s chart. “Has she had the mag sulf yet?” she called over her shoulder.

“Just drawing it up,” a nurse replied.