The EMT hit the blues at the gate, the strobes illuminating sporadic spots of rain that had become a fully-fledged downpour by the time Jem reached the RRV. She stopped in the middle of the driveway and turned her face skyward, relishing the coolness against her heated cheeks and letting the droplets rinse the smell of Dorothy’s room from her hair. Feeling less desperate to go back to station for a shower, she stowed her kit and settled into the driver’s seat. Ryan reacted to her “clear on scene” message within seconds, simultaneously sending her a job and voicing her on the radio.

“We’ve got nothing else for this one,” he told her, as she scrolled through the inputted information. “Are you okay to assess or would you rather wait for backup?”

“I’m okay to assess,” she replied, pulling out of the car park and accelerating on the main road. “Are the police running?”

“Notified, but nothing available. Update us from scene.”

“Wilco.” She released the radio’s lever, glancing again at the job’s description. Male. Approx 17 yoa. Unconscious with multiple injuries. Caller to meet crew on Ellery Lane.

“Shit,” she said, her sweaty palms slippery against the steering wheel. The address had been given as Abbey Vale Nature Reserve, with an almost apologetic addendum, River near the lake, which didn’t really narrow it down. There were three lakes, interconnected by numerous rivers and streams, and Ellery Lane tapered out well short of them. For all she knew, the caller was the patient’s assailant, and she had just agreed to follow him into the middle of nowhere.

Slowing for a red light, she hit the sirens and then crept through the junction, checking each lane was clear of traffic. She would be off the main roads in less than a mile, weaving through the back streets until she finally joined Ellery, a rutted, unlit track that few visitors used for access. She dried her left hand on her trousers and hovered over the talk request button, getting as far as putting her thumb on it but without exerting any pressure. What the hell would she say? “I’ve had a bit of a think and I’ve changed my mind. I’d rather sit on my arse at a rendezvous point and leave the lad to freeze or bleed to death”? She was no martyr, eager to rush headlong into danger for glory’s sake, but she had an emergency button on her radio, a hefty torch, a waterproof jacket, and—thanks to an almost magnetic attraction for this kind of job—ample experience.

“Once more unto the breach,” she said, and took a left onto Ellery Lane.

Any hopes of the call being a hoax disintegrated the instant she saw the man waving at her, a frantic two-armed windmill impersonation that had “bad job” written all over it. As she threw on her high-vis jacket, he ran to her car.