What he has here is important. His work. Maybe more important than anything else. Not for me, though He is going to have to choose.

But now Henry had turned away He was looking down.

Then she felt it. The floor was shaking.

It was slight at first, almost imperceptible, but within seconds it grew stronger. There was noise, a deep bass rumble, with grace notes added by the rattling of equipment on the benches and shelves of the room. Glass tinkling. As if some gigantic eighteen-wheeler were driving past, shaking the ground.

The shaking stopped.

Jack Dundas stood in the living room doorway. Everything was smashed to pieces The big patio doors had smashed apart. He saw his mother’s collection of CDs spilled on the floor, the player smashed beside them.

Granddad, Ted, was lying on the floor. He was on his back, his hands over his chest. He had his eyes closed.

“Granddad? Are you dead?”

Jack took a step forward. Glass fragments crunched under his trainers. He looked down; it was one of his own school photos, a grinning geeky kid in a red sweater, the frame smashed.

He went to Ted. He put his toy box down beside his grandfather. Was he dead?

He had seen reruns of old hospital shows like Casualty and ER, so he knew what to do. He reached forward nervously, and touched Ted’s neck The skin was warm. There was a pulse.

Ted coughed, and gasped for breath.

“Granddad? Granddad?”

Ted’s eyes were still closed. There was, Jack saw, blood soaking his shirt around his hands Jack reached down and took his grandfather’s wrists. They were thick and coated with wiry hair. He pulled Ted’s arms away from his chest, exposing a ripped shirt, and a bloody wound.

The wound was grisly. There was a piece of fractured rib protruding from the chest wall, surrounded by blood. The blood was bubbling.

Jack sat back, helpless, shocked.

“Jack.”

The voice was a croak, and it made the lad jump. His grandfather’s eyes were alert, on him.

“Help me. You can do it, lad. Make me sit up.”

Jack put down his box, crawled around behind Ted, and helped Ted to half-sit up, resting his head against his lap.

“That’s it… now put your hand over the wound.”

“I can’t.”

“Do it, Jack!”

Jack reached out and put his palm tentatively over the wound. Ted reached up and covered the lad’s hand with his own, pressing the hand into the wound. The feel of bone and broken flesh and bubbling made Jack want to heave, but his grandfather’s hand was warm and solid and steady.

“Good lad. Now seal the wound.”

“What?”

“Or else my lung will collapse. Find something that won’t leak. Anything.”

Jack looked around, scraped around in the litter on the floor. He found a clear plastic magazine envelope. New Scientist, he saw; his mother’s subscription.