The little girl had ruptured her spleen in the accident, but the shock took a while to kick in, enough time for her to get lost. She’ll be too poorly to celebrate Christmas, but her family are with her on the ward, and Santa will no doubt make a special trip when she’s feeling better.

I was right about my own fractured shoulder too – it’ll probably need surgery – but I missed my matching dislocated ankle, which has earned me a night on the orthopaedic ward, to keep an eye on the circulation. My parents dropped in last night with Marilyn, and they got cross with each other over nothing when, underneath, they were furious with me.

Not as angry as I am with myself. I cringe thinking about what I did. In the context of a major incident that claimed four lives, my injuries could have diverted attention from more serious cases. Walking off like that was a major breach of protocol. There will be consequences at work . . .

Joel leans over to kiss me on the cheek and the sheet turns grey from the dirt and grime on his hair and face. ‘Do you want me to come back later?’

‘Yes. Oh yes.’

After breakfast, the WRVS ladies come round. They’re wearing Santa hats, handing out shoeboxes lined with Christmas paper and filled with lavender soaps and hand cream.

I thank them. Yesterday’s tragedy has made me appreciate every kindness.

Yet as I lie in bed, my shoulder and ankle start to throb – I’m due more analgesia. Everything seems to darken as the pain deepens.

It’s over with Marek. The moment I heard Joel’s voice as I lay in that ditch I understood why I’ve never committed to anyone else. I texted Marek on my sister’s phone last night saying I’d been hurt at work, but not badly enough for him to cut his holiday short. When he’s home, I’ll try to explain. I care about him, but he’s not Joel.

It has always been Joel.

Except what if it’s not, even now? What if he’s with someone?

The thought is worse than the pain. When Zoë died, he said he’d met a woman, but that was over three years ago. I close my eyes. Please let him be free after all this time . . .

‘Dr Smith.’

My eyes snap open. Shit. It’s the director of the air ambulance charity, sitting by my bed. How long has he been there? I’ve only met him twice before, and from the expression on his face, he’s not delivering a Christmas present.

‘Mr Sawyer. Hi. I hope you didn’t make a special trip.’ My mouth is dry and the words come out thick and unclear.

‘This has been a busy night on duty for all of us,’ he says. ‘Are you in pain, Kerry?’

‘The meds are keeping it under control.’