The operation to fix Johnny’s broken arm and deal with his punctured lung had taken much longer than the surgeon had first anticipated, and the wait had been long and anxious. Amy burst into tears when they were informed that he had made it out of the operating theatre alive, but the doctor had warned that he was far from being out of the woods yet.

Thankfully, Maggie and Marion had arrived in time to hear the news and support Amy. It had been a long, uncomfortable night for them all.

Amy was horrified to learn that other people had been injured in the crash, and that a woman in her twenties had also been hospitalised. It would seem that Johnny had been speeding, which is what had caused the crash. Amy felt more guilty than she had ever thought possible. If only … the words spiralled around her head.

Amy had not slept a wink, unlike her three companions, who at different points had managed to drift off for various lengths of time.

During the night she had spoken to local police officers who’d attended the scene of the crash. They informed her that CCTV footage confirmed that Johnny had been driving faster than the legal speed limit, but that the crash was caused by a burst tyre, which meant the car had spun out of control. The officer explained that no charges would be brought against anyone, which made Amy feel slightly better, but not much.

All she wanted was to be able to see him. After his surgery she’d been allowed to see him as they wheeled him up to ICU, but the nurses had encouraged her to return to the relatives room until he was conscious, which was where she’d been stuck for nearly twelve hours. Throughout the night she’d visited the nurses’ station to ask when they thought he might regain consciousness, but none of them were willing or able to answer. It was a case of being patient, they explained, which was something that didn’t come naturally to Amy.

‘I know you’re worried, pet, but you really should eat something. You need to keep your energy up, for you and the baby.’ Marion placed her hand on Amy’s tense shoulder.

‘I’ve got food.’ Maggie fumbled in her rucksack for the crisps she’d packed.

‘No. I can’t. I’d just be sick.’ Amy got up and began pacing backwards and forwards; the sound of her flip-flops slapping the bottom of her feet echoed around the room.

‘He’d want you to look after yourself,’ Maggie said, removing a packet of ready salted from her bag.

‘He’d want not to be stuck in the hospital, struggling to breathe, strapped up to machines.’ Amy sniffed back tears. That silenced them all. No one could argue with that.