Nothing ever changed at Darnton Station. The tap over the kitchen sink was still dripping, there was still no loo paper in the ladies’ toilet, and chronic understaffing meant Jem was on the RRV again. She took its keys from the safe and dumped her helmet bag and high-vis jacket on its front seat. Unsure of the state of the roads, she had set off early that morning, and she had another half-hour to kill before she needed to sign on. She relocked the car and rested her hands on the car’s cold bonnet, listening to the loose panel flapping on the roof and a fox yapping on a nearby street. She had been nervous about work since waking, her stomach too unsettled to tolerate her mug of tea, and her fingers mucking up the buttons on her shirt as she tried to fasten it. While she had always subscribed to the “getting back on the horse that threw you” theory, she wondered whether she might have been better leaving the damn thing in the stable for the rest of the week, although fretting about her shift was at least taking her mind off what she might say to Rosie that evening.

“Too bloody late to change anything now,” she said, and shoved herself off the RRV.

The scent of frying bacon greeted her as she entered the main station, which was odd, given the absence of ambulances in the garage. She followed her nose regardless, taking a single step across the crew room threshold before Dougie swept her up in a bear hug.

“Morning, flower,” he said as Bob wandered out of the kitchen brandishing a spatula. “We thought you might like some company, so we swapped onto the sixes.”

“And brought breakfast,” Bob added.

She kissed Dougie’s cheek. “Thank you. Have I ever told you that I love you both?”

Bob blushed, and Dougie linked arms with her, ushering her to a table set with mismatched plates and mugs. Neighbouring Crofton Station had lost its stove after a near miss involving an absentminded crew, a forgotten pizza, and rather a lot of smoke alarms going off, but the management had never followed up on their threat to replace Darnton’s with microwaves. As Dougie brought in tea and toast, Bob filled Jem’s plate with bacon and eggs and tucked a paper towel into the neck of her shirt.

“In case you’re as messy an eater as Dougie is,” he said.

She smiled, her collywobbles kicked into touch by her first mouthful of smoky bacon. Almost everyone on the service complained about the job; about the late finishes, the overwhelming volume of calls, the morons and frequent fliers, the verbal and physical abuse, and the fleet of knackered vehicles, but those who stuck it out became a part of the best kind of family.