Bob and Noelene Shepherd clung together in a private waiting room at the Alfred Hospital; Bob knew one of the men on the board. Noelene had ridden with Noah in the back of the ambulance while Bob Shepherd had fetched the Bentley from the valet parking near the court and followed them there.

Noelene had told Bob how their son looked ghostly white and hadn’t regained consciousness, and how he had been whisked away the minute the ambulance screeched to a halt in the ambulance bay. No amount of wealth or privilege had allowed her to go on that next journey with him.

Bob stood up and approached the huge coffee machine on the bench. It was the same as the one at his work. He pressed a couple of buttons and it whirred to life. Minutes later, he handed Noelene a cappuccino. He was about to repeat the process for himself when the door opened. It was the surgeon who’d spoken to Noelene briefly hours earlier. The girl looked too young to be a surgeon and Noelene had said as much. And now, here she was, wearing scrubs and … what was that look on her face?

‘How is my son?’ asked Bob without preamble.

‘Mr Shepherd, would you mind sitting down?’ She pointed to the chair next to Noelene.

For once, Bob did what he was told without argument. He lowered himself into a seat and took Noelene’s hand.

The surgeon pulled up a chair and sat, facing them. ‘I’m afraid the news is not good,’ she said in a gentle voice. ‘Noah has suffered brain damage from his fall—’

‘It wasn’t a fall!’ cried Noelene. ‘He was attacked!’

Bob squeezed her hand and she quietened.

The surgeon started again. ‘When Noah’s head hit the step, the impact caused a skull fracture and a bleed. While the ambulance got him here as quickly as possible, the pressure from the bleed—’

A wail filled the room. Noelene. ‘Nooooo!’

Bob, more circumspect, cut across his wife’s anguish. ‘What’s the prognosis, doctor?’

‘It’s hard to tell with an acquired brain injury. At the moment, we’ve put him into an induced coma. There’s a lot of swelling. The next twenty-four hours are critical.’

Bob cleared his throat like he did in meetings. ‘So, to recap: the next twenty-four hours are critical to see if he has brain damage?’

The young surgeon shook her head. ‘No. His brain has been damaged. The next twenty-four hours are critical to see if he survives.’

Bob paced. Noelene could not be comforted. Noah. Their precious boy. In her mind, she heard the sickening thud of his head over and over again. It wouldn’t stop. That awful man hitting her boy. The moment of breaking. She would hear that sound echo for all eternity.

Thud. Hit the concrete.

Thud. Brain damage.

Thud. Twenty-four hours.