“Good,” Rosie said. “That sounds very unpleasant. What about the case? And Tahlia?”

“I can’t shed any light on the case,” Jem said. “No one has been in with an update, and I’ve not seen anything on the news. Kash told me that Tahlia is settling in at home, and he thinks they’re interviewing her today, so we might know more later.” She wheeled an overbed table crammed with tins and bags into view. “On a happier note, my dad brought more Aztec biscuits, and your mum cooked us a roast dinner. Kash collected clean clothes and trainers for you, and Ferg popped round about an hour ago with hot toddies he swears are medicinal.” She patted a tall silver flask and then glanced at the vomit bowls stacked in readiness. “Maybe wait till the morphine wears off, eh?”

“Yeah.” Rosie experimented with bending her leg but didn’t get very far. “Shit. I’m not sure I want it to wear off.”

“I’m not surprised.” Jem handed her a sealed plastic bag. “That’s your culprit. The bottom bit did most of the damage by digging itself in around your thigh bone.”

The rebar rolled lazily as Rosie held the bag to the light. One end of the metal was snapped clean where Smiffy had cut it, the other twisted almost into a hook.

“You’ve got quite a few stitches,” Jem continued. “But your surgeon said you’ll be right as rain after a course of antibiotics and some physio.”

“Don’t mention the bloody rain,” Rosie said.

“Puddles and sore hands.” Jem displayed fingers as shredded as Rosie’s. “Isn’t that our theme?”

Rosie chucked the bag out of sight and tapped Jem’s knee until she got the message and kissed Rosie full on the lips. Rosie tasted cinnamon and whiskey on the tip of Jem’s tongue, and felt her sway sideways as her breathing went haywire. When they parted, Rosie traced Jem’s smile with her finger.

“I think this is a much better theme for us,” she said.

* * *

Rosie used her crutch to tag the wall and shimmied around to face her bed again. The abused muscles in her thigh didn’t appreciate her efforts, but she swung her crutches onward regardless. Jem was sitting with her feet up in her usual spot, and she peered over her reading glasses to watch the next lap. Far more accustomed to hospital admissions than Rosie was, she had tolerated their two-day incarceration with enviable fortitude.

“If I tell them I smoke, will they let me go outside?” Rosie asked.

Jem turned the page in her well-thumbed novel. “No, they’ll slap a nicotine patch on your arse.”

“So much for that brilliant idea,” Rosie said, and tripped over a crack in the flooring. “What time is it?”

“What time was it when you last asked?”

“Eleven twenty-eight.”

“It’s eleven thirty-eight, then,” Jem said without looking at her watch.