Jem went into the kitchen, out of sight but still within earshot, and heard muted giggles erupt in her wake. In their early twenties and fresh out of university, Caitlin and Amira were paramedic reserves, newer staff members still waiting for a permanent shift pattern and duty-bound to fill the rota gaps in the meantime. As the East Manchester group included three different stations, they didn’t always work out of Darnton, but they made their presence felt whenever they copped for a shift there. Dougie, who rarely had a bad word to say about anyone, had christened them the “Witches of Ardwick.”

With the toaster ticking over and her tea nowhere near stewed enough, Jem stacked a mass of mucky pots in the dishwasher and scrubbed something that might have been curry sauce from the countertop. The sign asking staff to do their “own bloody dishes” had fallen behind the microwave again, which apparently rendered it null and void.

“So, Jem,” Caitlin said, raising her voice to ensure it carried, “is it true you accidentally shoved a patient under a van and broke his neck?” More stifled laughter punctuated the question, and there was a dull thud, as if one of them had slapped the arm of the other.

Jem buttered her toast, picking the shreds from her marmalade, though her appetite was fading fast. Her first slice dropped to the floor as she started to butter the second. It flipped and landed jammy side down.

“Bloody typical,” she muttered, scraping it up and dumping it in the bin.

“Come on, Jemima,” Amira said, taking up Caitlin’s thread. Unlike Rosie, she had the knack of making Jem’s name sound like an insult. “You can tell us. We won’t breathe a word, we promise.”

“Cross our hearts,” Caitlin added.

Jem’s mouth was too dry for her to answer, and she took her time screwing the top back on her jam. Despite the mouse that lurked in the dishwasher, the ants that regularly paraded across the top of the fridge, and the unidentifiable ooze between two of the floor tiles, the kitchen felt like a sanctuary compared to what awaited her in the crew room. Annoyed that she was allowing the pair of them to hound her on her home station, she drank a few fortifying sips of tea and rattled the spoon against the mug, giving the impression she’d just finished making it. Then, almost sure that she wouldn’t reveal her nerves by dropping anything, she carried her supper through and sat two seats away from them.

“No, it’s not true,” she said quietly. “That wasn’t what happened, and he was discharged about an hour ago.” Gauging the disappointment in their expressions, she bit into her toast, enjoying its buttery crunch now that she’d taken the wind from their sails. If they wanted the full story, they could ask someone else.