‘We’re getting it,’ Tilly said soothingly. Sophie had dialled and was stretching the phone cord to allow the fingers of her other hand to grasp the girl’s limp wrist. Eyes on the clock, she waited for the doctor to come to the phone, lips moving silently as she counted. The affected arm was dreadfully swollen, Tilly saw, and the visible area of the girl’s face was puffy.

The pulse taken, Sophie made a note and nodded at Luke. ‘Get Matt or Connor up. Somebody needs to check the airstrip. One good thing, it’ll be sun-up soon so we won’t need the flares.’

‘I can do that.’ Luke started for the door.

‘No,’ Sophie said firmly. ‘One of the others. In your present state you could drive over a buffalo without seeing it.’ Turning her head back to the phone, she began to speak. ‘Morning, doctor. Sorry for the early call. We have a patient for you – a tourist, Jane Wellaway, aged nineteen. She’s presented in a semi-conscious state . . .’

Luke left, and a few minutes later Matt appeared fully dressed, passed through the kitchen without a word and drove off in the former’s vehicle. Connor arrived next, also clothed.

‘I heard the racket. What’s up?’ he murmured to Tilly, who was filling the kettle at the sink.

She nodded at the girl and her father. ‘They’re from the camp. It’s Luke’s friend – she’s been bitten in the night.’ Suddenly realising that she was still in her pyjamas, Tilly slipped away to pull on jeans and a fleecy top, and exchange her bedsocks for footwear. Then, remembering the Wellaways’ state and the chill of the kitchen, she took a soft blanket from her bed to swathe about Jane and asked Luke, returned and waiting fretfully for the phone call to end, to find a jumper for Don.

‘One of mine’ll be a better fit,’ Connor said, eyeing the young man’s rangy body. He fetched a rollneck pullover, then began prosaically pulling plates and cutlery from their shelves and drawers to lay the table.

‘Thanks,’ Tilly said. ‘I see your wife has you well trained.’

‘I’m not married, but some men are house-trained, you know,’ Connor said mildly. ‘We’re not all slobs.’

‘Of course not,’ she agreed hurriedly.

‘Okay.’ Sophie put the phone down and turned to Don. ‘They’re on their way. The doctor thinks the swelling sounds more like an extreme allergic reaction to something – a scorpion or centipede, maybe even a green ant – than snake venom. He said if she’s conscious enough to swallow, we could try giving her a couple of tablets to relieve the swelling. I’ve got the number here. But not if there’s any danger of choking.’

Don, frowning fiercely and supporting his daughter’s head, said, ‘Number? What number?’

‘All the drugs in the medical chest are numbered,’ Sophie explained. ‘What do you think? Could she swallow?’