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Sophie

‘Hold still,’ a woman says. ‘I’m administering morphine. It’ll make you feel more comfortable.’

I feel the sharp prick of a needle in my hand and hear the door of Adam’s vehicle slam shut. Sirens blare and fade. A child’s wail grows louder.

Wren.

Mrs B is comforting her quietly. Now her voice is louder and closer.

‘Sophie. It’s Jen. We’re heading to the hospital. My neighbour’s driving me, Wren and Tom. She’ll follow the ambulance. I’ll come find you when we get there, I promise. I’ll see you soon.’

‘No,’ I whisper. ‘Stay with Adam. He needs you.’

Did she hear? I have no idea how much time has passed, how many hours or minutes Adam has left. Whether his heart has failed again and he’s gone for good.

‘What time is it?’

Mrs B doesn’t reply. She must have left.

A door closes; the paramedic speaks but I can’t make out her words. The ambulance is moving.

The pain blunts and softens around the edges, slowing my thoughts and making my eyelids heavy. As I slide into a warm, comforting drowsiness, I throw a silent plea out into the universe, 93 billion light years away.

Take me, not Adam.

I send another appeal much closer to home, to the paramedics in Adam’s ambulance, which is 650 metres ahead: please don’t stop trying to save him.

Don’t give up. Don’t let him die.

When I open my eyes, the world is sparkling white with hazy grey borders. Everything is shifting. I tilt my head and pain explodes and recedes. The blurriness expands and contracts into oceans of blue.

‘Don’t panic,’ a voice says. ‘It will take time for the vision in your left eye to adjust.’

I exhale slowly, gripped by rising nausea.

‘I’m Dr Choudhury, an emergency consultant,’ the man continues. ‘You’ve suffered second-degree burns to your face and retinal damage in your right eye. There might be minor injury to your left. We’re monitoring you and optical surgery isn’t ruled out.’

I lift my hand to my face and feel soft wadding.

‘Your right eye needs to stay covered, and there’s a large dressing on your cheek. We can give you another dose of morphine if you’re in discomfort?’

‘Not yet.’

I need to stay lucid and awake. My left eye comes into focus, and a man with a black goatee beard and a stretched earlobe piercing gradually appears. He’s wearing a dark blue uniform. It takes longer to see his number: 14,010.

‘Where’s Adam? Is he alive?’

‘Your boyfriend’s in ICU,’ he explains. ‘He’s in a critical but stable condition.’

Oh God! For how much longer?

‘What’s the time?’

‘Let me check . . . It’s 11.21.’

Adam has 39 minutes left.

Paper rustles as Dr Choudhury flicks through his notes. ‘I know this is hard to hear, but Adam’s been placed into an induced coma to give his body the best possible chance to recover. His mum and daughter are currently with him.’

‘I need to be there too.’

I sit up and Dr Choudhury appears to break into two and whirl around my bed.

‘That won’t be possible yet, sorry. You need to rest while we carry out more tests.’

‘No! I have to see Adam. His heart stopped on the beach. He was dead, but our friend, Tom, brought him back.’ My voice sounds strangled. ‘I’m worried his heart is fatally damaged from the lightning strike. I don’t think he’s going to make it.’

‘My colleagues will do absolutely everything they can to provide—’

‘I need to see him before it’s too late,’ I cut in. ‘I’m begging you. This could be my last chance.’

He hesitates. ‘Let me see what I can do.’

‘Please hurry! I’m scared he doesn’t have much time.’

I hold my breath as minutes tick by. I count them silently. Three minutes and 20 seconds later, Dr Choudhury returns with a grey-haired porter pushing a wheelchair.

‘Ron will take you to ICU. But this can only be a brief visit, and you must come straight back.’

‘Thank you, I will. I need to get there as soon as possible.’

Ron helps me into the seat. ‘I’m on it!’

Numbers swirl as we fly through corridors, passing patients, their families and doctors. The digits are faint and fuzzy grey. We take the lift to the fourth floor and I see three figures in the distance: two adults with a child. I screw up my eyes.

Mrs B, Tom and Wren.

‘I’m surprised they let you up here so soon!’ Tom exclaims as we draw closer.

I squint, taking in their body language: no one is distraught with grief. Adam must be alive!

‘I used my famous powers of persuasion.’

He smiles as Ron steps away to give us privacy. I hold out my hands and Wren grabs them, climbing silently on to my lap. I wrap my arms around her.

‘Hey, Wren.’

‘I’ve been in to see Adam and was about to come downstairs and look for you,’ Mrs B says. ‘How are you doing?’

‘I’ll be okay.’ I peer at her. ‘What about Adam?’

It takes me a few seconds to realise her eyes are red from crying.

‘Daddy’s still asleep,’ Wren whispers. ‘He won’t wake up.’

‘But he’s going to be fine,’ Mrs B replies briskly. ‘Absolutely fine.’

Tom stares at the floor. Nobody wants to let their guard down in front of her.

‘I’ve asked Wren if she wants to see her daddy, but she’s reluctant, which is understandable,’ Mrs B says. ‘Hospitals are scary places for children. I can bring her tomorrow when she’s had time to come to terms with what happened tonight.’

‘No!’ I say vehemently. ‘I mean, it might be more comforting if she can see how well the doctors are caring for him.’

Wren has to say goodbye to Adam. This will be her last chance.

I climb out of the wheelchair, turning to Ron. ‘I’ll be good from here, thanks. I’ll get someone to bring me down.’ I pause. ‘Do you have the time? Just so I know when to be back.’

He hesitates, before removing the walkie-talkie from his belt as it beeps. ‘It’s 11.36. Make sure you do, otherwise I’ll be in trouble.’

I nod, trying to keep my composure as he leaves.

‘Why don’t we go in together, Wren?’ I’m fighting to keep the fear and desperation out of my voice.

‘That’s a great idea!’ Mrs B says. ‘What do you think? The nurse says your daddy can have family visitors, one or two at a time.’

Wren’s bottom lip trembles and she edges away.

Tom crouches beside her. ‘You could talk to your dad. Say hello. It could help him feel better.’

‘But he’s asleep! He won’t hear me.’

‘He’s not sleeping, he’s in a coma, which is different,’ he explains. ‘Doctors believe people can still hear and feel comforted even though they can’t move or reply. Hearing the voices of loved ones can help their recovery.’

‘You mean they can wake up?’

Tom nods his head. ‘Yes, that can happen. In some cases, certainly.’

His voice is riddled with doubt. Has he realised that Adam won’t recover?

‘What do you think?’ I ask.

‘Maybe. I don’t know.’ Wren stares down at the grey tiles, nudging an abandoned sweet wrapper with the tip of her wellie.

Mrs B’s phone rings. ‘It’s my sister. I need to give her an update. You should take Wren in if she changes her mind. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

She hurries further along the corridor. Wren throws herself on to one of the plastic chairs, swinging her feet.

‘I need to make a few calls, then I’ll stay with Mrs B,’ Tom says.

‘What about your dad?’

‘I rang his carer from the golf club and he agreed to stay overnight. I can be here as long as you need me.’

‘Thank you! If you hadn’t arranged to meet Adam at the party and brought the defibrillator...’ I stumble over my words. ‘He wouldn’t still be with us.’

‘He’s not out of the woods yet.’ Tom lowers his voice. ‘Adam’s heart suffered considerable damage from the electrical current. He was placed in an induced coma to protect his organs. The extent of his injuries is severe, Sophie.’

I dig my nails into my palms. He’s trying to break it to me gently that Adam’s unlikely to pull through.

‘I understand,’ I say thickly. ‘Whatever happens, I’ll always be grateful. You couldn’t help Lily and the others that night, but you saved Adam on the beach. Thank you for giving us more time, however long that might be. Thank you for everything.’

We hug each other.

‘That’s what old friends are for,’ he replies sadly.