She toyed with her mobile, scrolling through the directory, past Ferg, who would be well on his way to London by now, and past her dad, who had enough on his plate and would likely still be in bed. Those were her top two choices, she told herself as she hunted in vain for a tissue. Those were the people she would have called first, had they not been unavailable or hurtling below the Watford Gap. Her third option was merely a fallback in their stead, someone she knew would be awake, because they too started work at stupid o’clock. The triangular bandage she shook out billowed like a white flag as the draught from the heater caught it. Ignoring its gratuitous symbolism, she used it to blow her nose and then called Rosie.

* * *

Preferring to enjoy a leisurely breakfast and then hare around getting everything sorted at the last minute, Rosie was still in her pyjamas and sharing an apple with Fluffy when her mobile rang. Taking advantage of the distraction, Fluffy pinched the last chunk and scurried under the sofa with it.

“You better run, you little sod,” she said, flipping the cover back on her phone just in time to see Jem’s name but not fast enough to answer the call. “Huh.”

Jem had disconnected after only three rings, suggesting she’d either bum-dialled or had second thoughts. Rosie peeled a banana, keeping one eye on the phone to see whether an explanatory text or another call might be forthcoming. It was ten past six, so Jem would have started her shift. Given their dual tendency to attract shit luck, if Rosie disturbed her as she drove to a job it would probably result in a multi-vehicle pile-up. The phone rang again as Rosie took her first bite of banana. She swallowed and answered simultaneously, producing a sound reminiscent of a choking frog.

“Hello?” Jem said. “Rosie, is that you?”

Rosie hacked a cough and started again. “How do. It’s me. Sorry, I had a gobful of banana.”

Jem chuckled and then took a long breath, as if the air around her had suddenly cleared. “Am I okay calling this early? Only, I thought you’d be up, and I didn’t know who else—”

“You’re fine,” Rosie said, cutting across her rambling. “I’m up, dressed, raring to go—one of those is a fib—so what’s wrong? And don’t tell me ‘nothing,’ because you’d be crap at lying even over the phone.”

“It’s not nothing,” Jem said. “That Advanced Paramedic from the Kyle Parker job? Baxter? He’s accused me of losing some morphine, and I don’t think I did but I can’t prove I didn’t.” She relayed the facts without inflection, as if she’d already admitted defeat. “And I’m not sure how far he’ll take it. He’s threatened to have the police search my house.”