“We contacted her son, but he’s at an office party so he’s not coming over,” the carer said. “He’ll call in the morning to see how she is.” The grim look Jem gave her must have been answer enough, because she sighed and ran a hand through Dorothy’s patchy hair. “She has a ‘Do Not Attempt Resuscitation’ form. I’ll get it out of her file for you.”

“That’d be really helpful, thanks,” Jem said. Under no illusions as to the outcome of the job, she had positioned the defib in readiness at Dorothy’s side, but the DNAR removed the prospect of having to manage a cardiac arrest on her own if Dorothy finally succumbed.

“Can I get you a brew, love?” the carer asked.

“Maybe something cold?” Jem said. “Water or juice? If it’s no bother.”

“None at all. I’ll see if I can find you a few biccies.”

Jem’s mouth watered at the prospect of food. It seemed as if days had passed since the cake she’d shared with Ferg in the Abbey Vale cafe. She rechecked Dorothy’s observations, patted each of her pockets until she found her reading glasses, and made a start on her paperwork.

Eighty-three minutes, two custard creams, and a glass of apple juice later, the roar of a Merc’s engine and the sound of boots on the gravel drive stopped her worrying about her depleted oxygen supply and the saline she was about to run out of.

“Hey, Spence,” she said as the paramedic poked his head around the door. “It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise. Been here a while?” he asked, taking stock of the empty IV bags and raising an eyebrow at the blood pressure reading on the defib.

“Couple of hours. That BP’s the best I’ve had.”

“Crikey. We’d better get a wriggle on, for what it’s worth. The hospitals are slammed. We’ve just done three hours on the corridor at West Penn.”

“Joyful.” She helped him and his mate slide Dorothy onto the stretcher. “Let’s hope my next one’s a bag of shite I can flirt off to a doctor, or I’ll be stuck with them till the end of my shift.”

She walked down to the ambulance with the crew, handing Dorothy’s details over as they steered the stretcher through the maze of corridors, and swapping oxygen cylinders and saline at the vehicle. Spence smiled at her as she stowed the tail lift for him.

“I’d wish you good luck, but I’d be wasting my breath,” he said, and laughed when she punched his arm. He’d spent six months working on a temporary line with her before he’d transferred to the Hazardous Area Response Team, which was five months more than anyone else had managed. “Take it easy, Jem.”

“Yeah, you too.”