Connie looked desperately at Jared. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be having trouble breathing, his chest heaving ominously.

‘He has to stay awake,’ she heard Devan muttering, almost to himself. He got up, taking Connie by the shoulders, his gaze intense. ‘But he needs professional help. Nothing will make any difference in the long run, unless we get him to hospital … right now.’

They stared at each other helplessly, panic and shock mirrored in their eyes. ‘OK,’ Devan decided. ‘You try to rouse him. I’m going to climb out of the window. It’s our only chance.’ He strode over to the window and ripped back the curtains. They were on the first floor, and the paned sash window of the old house was small, stiff in the frame – they rarely opened it more than a foot. Outside, it was a drop of around fifteen feet to the ground.

‘No,’ Connie cried out. ‘You’ll never fit through.’ It was also true that she couldn’t face being left alone with Jared, maybe watching as he gave up his hold on life. Devan was much better qualified, anyway. ‘I’ll go. You deal with him.’ She went over and pushed her husband out of the way.

He hesitated for a second. ‘Are you sure?’

She didn’t reply. She was terrified, but also driven as she twisted the lock and yanked open the window. Cold wind rushed in, a welcome breath of air after the heavy, fraught atmosphere in the room. She knelt on the windowsill and put one leg gingerly out into the night, squeezing her body through the gap, hanging on for dear life to the sill.

‘Take my hands,’ she heard Devan say. ‘I can lower you.’

Balancing half in, half out, and loath to let go of the sill, she managed, nonetheless, to grab one of her husband’s outstretched hands, then, after a moment, the other. She took a deep breath as she slipped her other leg outside. Her bare feet scrabbled at the wet brick as she hung there, clinging to Devan’s strong grip as he leaned out, lowering her slowly towards the ground. She looked down. There was a ledge above the sitting-room window, but it was just out of reach and too narrow to hold her weight anyway. Paralysed, she cowered as rain lashed cold on her back, the wind blowing her hair across her face so she couldn’t see. Jump, she urged herself. Jump – it’s not far. But she couldn’t.

Devan’s voice cut through the storm, steady and reassuring. ‘It’s OK, Connie, you can do it.’ She felt her hands – soaked with rain – sliding in his, her grip weakening. There was no choice: the strain on her arm sockets was unbearable. Her fingers finally broke free and she fell.