‘Are you all right there, Tim?’ asks Jeff or Roger. He’s told me his name twice now but I can’t seem to make it stick and I can’t see his badge. Roger or Jeff is in the back with Joel. ‘Big thing you did for your mate. He’s got the best chance, thanks to you.’

‘I know.’

I know that fewer than one in ten patients who suffer out-of-hospital cardiac arrests survive. Will Joel be the lucky one?

‘And the girl who was hanging around? Was she the lad’s girlfriend?’

Kerry. What was it about her amygdala that made her able to act while I froze? She’s always been more impulsive than me, but even so, we both should have been prepared.

‘No, definitely not his type. Kerry and I are . . . friends. And first-aiders. We’ve both applied to medical school.’

‘Doctors-in-waiting, eh? At least you’re not afraid to get hands-on when it counts, which is more than I can say for some.’

It was the siren that snapped me out of my paralysis. By then, Kerry must have been exhausted, her compressions becoming inefficient, reducing Joel’s chances. Taking turns was the best way to maximize the chances of a good outcome. When I took over, I brought fresh energy.

Who am I kidding? I screwed up. I failed.

We turn left, and Jeff/Roger puts his foot down.

‘How’s he doing, Roger?’ The driver – Jeff, I must remember that – calls over his shoulder.

‘Stable. Hanging on in there.’

I wish I was in the back with Joel, where everything needed to preserve life is stored, neatly shelved, ready for use. After the unbearable chaos of that scene on the Lawns I crave order.

‘You know, whatever the outcome,’ the driver says, glancing at me briefly, ‘whatever happens to the lad in the end, you mustn’t feel guilty. You must tell yourself, I stepped in. When everyone else was standing around gawping, I was the one who tried.’

I open my mouth to confess to my paralysis: those shameful minutes when I left Kerry to work on Joel alone. This man will absolve me, reassure me that it doesn’t matter who gave the CPR, all that matters is someone did.

My failure to act could even help Mum accept that becoming a doctor might be beyond my capabilities. She’s in denial about the rejections I’ve already had from three of the four med schools I’ve applied to. It only takes one, Tim.

‘Tim . . .? Will you promise me that, Tim?’ the driver continues.

As I try to form the words to explain what really happened, I picture my mother’s face instead.

She can’t know what a pathetic failure I am: it would kill her.

Next time I’ll be better.

I close my mouth.