“Yeah, hiya.” The young woman at the kitchen table blew a plume of e-cig smoke toward the ceiling and nodded at the baby strapped into a bouncer. “She went all red in the face for a couple of minutes, but I think it were wind.”

Jem slowly set her response bag, her defib, and her advanced life support bag onto the kitchen laminate and unclipped her radio. “Tell the crew not to rush,” she told Ryan. “And if you need them for anything else, use them.” She crouched by the baby. “May I?”

The woman used her e-cig to make a “be my guest” gesture and scratched her belly through her onesie.

Cradling the baby, Jem took her into the living room, away from the smoke. The woman stopped in the doorway, leaning on the jamb.

“What exactly happened?” Jem asked.

“I were feeding her, and when she were done she puked up a bit and coughed and went bright red, but by the time I’d finished phoning the ambulance she were fine.”

There wasn’t much Jem could say to that, so she gave the baby a thorough once-over and cancelled the ambulance when the mum declined a trip to the hospital.

“What’s her name?” Jem asked, starting her paperwork.

The mum slotted the baby into another bouncer two feet away from a widescreen television and sat her own arse in the puddle of milk on the sofa. “It’s Polly.”

“Surname?”

“Jolley. With an e.”

Jem blinked. “Polly Jolley?”

“Yeah.” The mum puffed on her cig again. “Cute, isn’t it?”

“Mm.” Jem felt an instinctive kinship with the poor child as she signed her own stupid name on the form. “Any further problems, call one-one-one for advice, okay?”

“Yep, fine. No worries.” The mum tickled the toddler’s belly and stole a spoonful of soggy cereal. “Is that everything? Only I have to get Holly ready for playgroup.”

Not sure whether to laugh or cry, Jem opted for a diplomatic retreat. She squeezed her kit through the door and paused at the front gate to let a gang of schoolchildren go past. Starting work so early was always a brain bender, with everyone else’s rush hour occurring three hours into her shift, when she was busy plotting her first brew and toilet break.

“Is the AP still waiting for me?” she asked Ryan as she shoved her bags into their cubbyholes.

Ryan did nothing to hide his irritation. “He is, and he’s been pecking my head every ten minutes for the last hour. I’d give you a job if there was anything in the stack besides a nineteen-year-old with a blood blister, and Mary Kirkholt.”

Jem fastened her seat belt, her foot idling on the accelerator. “How many is this for Mary today?”