And Dr Simon Sharp is as much of an attraction as the storm. Chiselled jawline, wide Hollywood smile. He bounces excitedly in his seat as they approach the tornado. Shouting to be heard above the noise, he explains in detail what they’re seeing, explaining complicated scientific terms in a way that even Freya can understand. She’s completely caught up in the drama.

Sharp gets out of the car, his T-shirt blown tight against his broad chest as he points at the tornado. It’s moving away now, blue sky visible in the background, but his childlike wonder at the storm is something to behold. His enthusiasm is infectious.

Neither of them says a word throughout the thirty-minute episode, Robin as transfixed as she is. The team of three – Sharp, the cameraman and another guy with a laptop – seem tight. They joke happily between themselves, dispensing handshakes and slaps on the back as they track down twister after twister.

‘That’s Justin White,’ Robin says, pointing at the cameraman. ‘They interviewed him today.’

‘Any motive?’ Freya asks.

‘Doesn’t seem like it. And he was nowhere near the van when it all happened.’

‘So he says.’

‘Waiting for the footage to confirm,’ Robin agrees. ‘I don’t recognise the other guy, though – they must have had a change in the team.’

The reason for the switch soon becomes clear. The series is addictive, and they watch without pause. Then tragedy strikes.

A disclaimer appears at the beginning of an episode: This contains scenes of a distressing nature. Viewer discretion is advised. It starts out much the same as the others: a crop-filled field in America, rain and wind buffeting the car in which Simon Sharp and another guy sit, being filmed. And suddenly there’s a huge bang, and the footage shifts to darkness. There’s shouting, panicked cries, and then the camera comes back up.

A voice shouts, ‘Keep filming, keep filming!’ and Freya and Robin can see the problem. The four-by-four has been hit by something, the windscreen smashed. Sharp has a bloody cut on his forehead and is bending over a prostrate man on the concrete. A small crowd has gathered around them.

‘He can’t breathe,’ a voice behind the camera shouts. ‘Call 911.’

‘I can’t open his mouth! His jaw must be broken,’ Sharp says. The unconscious man is pale, his lips turning blue. Blood pours from his nose; his chin looks twisted and deformed. ‘He needs an emergency crike.’

Freya watches, her hand over her mouth, as Sharp takes a penknife out of his pocket and opens out one of the blades.

‘You can’t do that here!’ someone exclaims, and Sharp looks into the camera, eyes intense.