The first sound Edwin made in the ambulance wasn’t a word.

It was a whimper. High and thin and animal.

Fizz leaned over him, one hand braced on the rail as the vehicle swayed round a bend. The paramedic had already strapped an oxygen mask to Edwin’s face, taped a cannula to the back of his hand. The boy’s pupils were unequal. His skin had that grey tinge she hated. Head injury. Shock. Fear.

“Edwin,” she said, pitching her voice low and calm. “Can you hear me? It’s Felicity. Fizz. Remember? I was at your mum’s.”

His eyes flickered. The left one opened a fraction.

“He can hear you,” the paramedic said. “BP’s holding. GCS twelve… eleven… back to twelve.”

“Good lad,” Fizz...

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