I’ve talked Siya into letting me go out with her again, heading out to drop supplies off to some of the women workers. We’ve been on the road for an hour and she’s a little more relaxed today.

‘No. You drive well. It’s more . . . what you said yesterday, about being distanced from the callers, the people who needed help? It does frustrate me. I didn’t realize till yesterday, watching your colleagues with the kids, and I craved that . . .’

‘A baby with Timothy?’

‘God, no. Not yet, anyway. I mean real contact with actual patients.’ I shrug. ‘We’re all different of course. Tim is the opposite, he’s loving the public-health work which—’

Siya brakes suddenly and I shoot forward towards the windscreen, before the seatbelt tightens across my body. ‘Look!’

Ahead of us, a moped lies on its side, along with a carpet of dried-out leaves, the kind they use for the horrible bidi roll-ups they call ‘poor man’s cigarettes’. Flies are already gathering.

I reach for my door handle, sure there must be a casualty nearby, but Siya stops me. ‘No! It could be a set-up. An ambush.’

The words sound melodramatic, but she’s right to hold back. The first responder’s acronym DR ABC that was drilled into me at ambulance cadets flashes to my mind. D stands for danger, though even back then, I found it hard to hold back.

I peer through the window. ‘We can’t just drive past, can we?’

Siya stares through the glass. ‘I . . . I don’t know. Perhaps the person on the bike has gone for help. Can you see anybody?’

There’s a ditch to the side of the track, that separates us from a rice paddy. I scan it. Poking out at the far edge, I can see something rounded, browny-pink. ‘Is that a foot?’

Siya edges forward in first gear and even though she keeps the revs down, it sounds as loud as a jet engine. If rebels are waiting in the trees, they could jump out at any time. We have supplies on board, but no phone to get help: there’s no signal this far into the jungle.

The scooter lies diagonally across the track, so we can’t get past even if we decide not to get out. Siya’s knuckles have paled where she grips the steering wheel.

The foot – or whatever it is – moves.

‘Look. It’s definitely a person, Siya.’

‘I’ll back up, turn round. We can go back and get help.’

‘If the rider is badly hurt, he needs help now, not in two hours!’

Before she can start reversing, I grab the door handle and clamber out, though I’m half expecting a bullet to thump through my back, or unseen hands to grasp my ankles and pull me into the forest.