Jem squinted up as Rosie set two plastic cups on the hand gel dispensers and crouched by her side. It was warm in the corridor, and Rosie had taken off her hat, freeing waves of auburn hair streaked through with blond and cut into a choppy bob, as if the style had wanted to conform but rebelled at the last minute. If she’d chosen it to match her personality, it was damn near perfect.

“I fell off a tyre swing when I was seven and ended up with paws like these.” She took hold of Jem’s wrists, assessing the damage. “My mam—she was never really one for first aid—smothered them in butter and bandages and left them to cook for two days of a nineties heat wave. They got infected, and I nearly lost a pinkie.”

Jem waited a few seconds for a punch line that never came. “That’s quite an upsetting story.”

“Yeah, but it has a happy ending. Look.” Waggling her intact little fingers, Rosie plonked into the chair Kev had vacated. She reached to retrieve the brews, her coat sleeve riding up to reveal a black tattoo of a Manchester bee. “I wasn’t sure if you were a tea or a coffee gal, so I made one of each. Take your pick. I’m not fussy.”

“Tea, thanks.” Jem cradled the cup, smiling at the paper towels Rosie had insulated it with.

“Did he read you the Riot Act?” Rosie asked, thumbing in the direction of Kev’s departure.

“Not really. How about you?”

Rosie ticked the misdemeanours off on her fingers. “I should have requested an urgent assist, tow ropes aren’t designed for search and rescue, the lamppost hadn’t been risk assessed, and Traffic should have closed the motorway. There’s probably a few more I’m forgetting, but the lad’s bride-to-be and his dad all but declared their undying adoration for me in front of my sarge, so I’m still gainfully employed.”

Jem raised her cup in a toast. “To gainful employment.”

“I’ll drink this nasty NHS coffee to that.” Rosie took a slurp from her brew. “I don’t believe we were properly introduced. Rosie Jones—pleasure and all that.”

“Jemima, but my mates call me Jem.”

“Jemima…” Rosie trailed off expectantly, and Jem sighed, bracing herself for the usual slew of jokes.

“Pardon. My surname’s Pardon.”

“Jemima Pardon.” Rosie sounded it out slowly, hitting the syllables as if testing their rhythm. “I like it. It’s unusual.”

“It’s a pain in the arse,” Jem said, too much on the defensive to appreciate the compliment. “Everyone takes the piss.”

Rosie drained her cup and pushed out of her chair. “Jealousy results in very tiresome behaviour, Ms. Pardon. Us plain-monikered folk can be a bitter bunch.”

The surface of Jem’s tea rippled as she laughed. Rosie might be borderline bonkers, but she certainly brightened a night shift.