The quarry path lay quiet, chalk dust pale under Alice’s trainers. The air bit now, sharp enough to sting when she breathed too fast. Somewhere below, water shifted against stone with a hollow, dragging sound.

  Their place sat just off the track, half-hidden by brambles and elder trees: the old maintenance shed Jamie had “fixed up.” The door creaked when she nudged it open.

  Louder than she remembered.

  She paused, fingers still curled around the handle. The inside smelled faintly of wax and cold metal. The ticking sound came again — not a clock. Cooling. Something mechanical settling.

  Footsteps crunched behind her.

  Jamie appeared through the trees, smiling, holding a crooked bunch of wildflowers. His cheeks were flushed. Not from walking.

  “For you,” he said.

  Her face lifted despite herself. “You didn’t have to.”

  “I wanted to,” he said, like that was the end of the discussion.

  He unlocked the shed and pushed the door wider.

  Candlelight flickered along the sill. A blanket lay smoothed on the floor. Snacks arranged with careful precision — the ones she always reached for first.

  Her chest loosened. Just a fraction.

  She hugged him, harder than she meant to. “Thank you.”

  His arms closed around her — firm. Holding. His hands pressed flat against her back and stayed there longer than usual.

  She noticed.

  She ignored it.

  They sat on the blanket, knees touching. The candles bent whenever the wind pushed through gaps in the boards. Jamie talked too fast — about school, about a guy who’d mouthed off, about a car he’d seen earlier. His leg bounced. He checked his phone once, then turned it face-down.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. Too quickly. “Just... a lot today.”

  “That’s fine,” he said. “We’re here now.”

  He leaned in.

  The kiss was soft at first. Familiar. Safe enough that she let herself breathe.

  Then his hands moved.

  Not exploratory. Claiming.

  Her shoulders tensed.

  “Jamie,” she said quietly. “Wait.”

  He didn’t stop.

  His weight shifted, heavier now, pressing her into the blanket. The shed felt suddenly too small, air thick and stale.

  “Jamie,” she said again. Louder. “Stop.”

  “You’re just nervous,” he said, not looking at her face. “That’s normal.”

  Her breath caught. The sound scraped out of her.

  “No,” she said. “Stop.”

  He leaned closer.

  “I said stop.”

  He didn’t hear her — or chose not to.

  “You wanted this,” he said, irritation bleeding through his voice now. “You came here.”

  Fear snapped clean through her chest.

  She shoved at his shoulders. He barely moved — not because he was overpowering her, but because he wasn’t expecting resistance.

  “Get off me,” she gasped.

  He frowned, genuinely confused. “Jesus, Alice. Don’t make it weird.”

  “Weird?” Her voice shook. “I said no.”

  His face changed then. Not angry. Not yet.

  Cold.

  “You lot always do this,” he said. “Say yes, then freak out.”

  Her stomach dropped.

  “Get off me,” she shouted.

  He laughed once — short, sharp. “You’re overreacting.”

  She drove her knee up between them.

  He swore, jerking back just enough.

  Her hand cracked across his cheek.

  The sound echoed inside the shed — wrong, loud, final.

  He stared at her.

  Not hurt.

  Offended.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snapped.

  “I said no,” she said, scrambling upright, heart hammering so hard she thought she might pass out. “I said stop.”

  “You don’t just get to say no like that,” he said. “Not after—” he said, standing now. His voice dropped. Dangerous. “You don’t get to make me the bad guy.”

  “I can change my mind,” she said, backing toward the door. “I just did.”

  He laughed again — this time without humour.

  “This is why,” he said suddenly. “This is why you’re like this.”

  Her breath stuttered. “Like what?”

  “Always apologising. Always protecting that—” He sneered. “That thing you call a sister.”

  Her blood went cold.

  “Don’t,” she said.

  “Luke,” he said deliberately. “That’s what he is. Luke. And everyone pretends—”

  She surged forward, shaking. “You don’t say that name.”

  He stepped closer instead.

  “You know how embarrassing it is?” he went on. “Watching you defend him like he’s some fucking charity case? Walking around like he’s normal?”

  She slapped him again.

  Harder.

  He grabbed her wrist this time.

  Not tight.

  Just enough.

  “You hit me again,” he said calmly, “and this goes very differently.”

  Her chest locked. Panic flooded her limbs.

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  “Let go of me.”

  His grip tightened — then released abruptly, like he’d decided something.

  He stepped back, jaw clenched. “You’re not worth it.”

  She bolted.

  Cold air smashed into her lungs. She stumbled outside, bent double, dragging breath in ragged bursts. The trees swam.

  Behind her, Jamie swore.

  She didn’t look back until she heard his phone.

  His voice dropped — urgent, sharp.

  “Yeah. It’s me.”

  A pause.

  “No, I’m serious. She told me something earlier. About her sister. Alone. Same route.”

  Another pause.

  His mouth twisted into something like a smile.

  “Yeah. Tonight.”

  Something in his voice made the air feel wrong — sharp, purposeful.

  Her stomach turned.

  He snapped the phone shut, grabbed his keys, and brushed past her like she was furniture.

  The car was already awake, engine snarling low. Headlights flared — white and blinding — freezing her in place for half a second too long.

  Gravel sprayed as he reversed hard.

  The engine roared and vanished down the road.

  Alice slid down against a tree, shaking so badly she couldn’t stop it.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  Her brain tried to bargain — Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe he was just angry.

  No.

  She knew what no felt like.

  Inside the shed, a candle guttered and went out.

  Somewhere else, engines were already moving too fast.

  And Skye was still walking home.

  ?

  Alice took the long way home.

  She cut through the bypass estate instead of heading straight back, the path dim and uneven beneath the streetlights. At the corner shop she bought Skye’s favourite crisps without thinking, then the chocolate Mum liked when she was trying not to shout. Something to hand over. Something that might smooth the edges of the night.

  Outside, the air had sharpened. The sky was fully dark now, clouds low and moving fast. One streetlight flickered, buzzed, steadied again.

  She walked.

  Halfway down the main road, she heard sirens.

  One at first. Then another.

  They didn’t pass.

  They stayed.

  Her steps slowed.

  By the time she reached the junction, traffic had stalled. Engines idled in uneven rows, red brake lights stretching down the road like a wound that wouldn’t close. Blue lights flashed against shop windows, reflections breaking and reforming across glass.

  People stood in loose knots on the pavement. Some whispered. Some stared. Phones rose, then dropped again.

  A police car blocked the lane. Another sat skewed at the curb, doors still shut.

  Alice stopped short, plastic bag crinkling in her hand.

  Her mouth felt dry.

  “Sorry,” she said to the nearest officer. The word barely made it out. “What happened?”

  The officer looked at her — not alarmed, but careful.

  “Hit and run,” he said. “Two pedestrians. One older teenager. One younger child.”

  Younger child.

  Her fingers tightened on the bag.

  “Are they—” She didn’t finish.

  “Ambulances are delayed — traffic’s backed up,” the officer said.“We’re doing what we can.”

  Delayed.

  The word didn’t land properly.

  Alice nodded like she understood and stepped back.

  Then she saw the bag.

  Pink fabric on the tarmac, strap torn clean through. A notebook lay beside it, pages lifting and settling in the breeze like something breathing.

  Her vision narrowed.

  “No,” she said. Just the word. Nothing else.

  Lots of bags look like that.

  She ducked under the tape before anyone stopped her. Someone called out. She didn’t register the words. She scooped up the bag and notebook, pressing them to her chest.

  Not hers. Not hers. Not—

  The crowd shifted as she pushed forward, parting unevenly. Someone whispered her name. She didn’t turn.

  Then she saw Skye.

  Too small against the road. One shoe missing. Jacket twisted wrong. Blood darkened the pavement beneath her head, matted into her hair, streaked along her cheek. Her face — what wasn’t marked — looked peaceful.

  Like she’d fallen asleep in the car on the way home.

  Alice made a sound that didn’t belong to language.

  She dropped to her knees beside her, the cold seeping through her jeans.

  “Skye,” she said. “Skye, wake up.”

  Her hands shook so badly she struggled to touch her.

  An arm caught her shoulder. “Miss—”

  “She’s my sister,” Alice sobbed, wrenching free. “Please.”

  The officer hesitated, then stepped back.

  Alice pressed her fingers to Skye’s neck.

  Nothing.

  “No,” she whispered. “No, no—”

  She remembered the assembly. The poster. Hands in the middle of the chest. Push hard. Push fast.

  “I can help,” she said, breath tearing. “I can—”

  She positioned her hands, palms slick with blood, and began compressions.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Her arms burned almost immediately. She counted wrong. Started again.

  “Please,” she said. “Please—Skye—”

  She tilted Skye’s head back and leaned down, giving breaths she wasn’t sure were right. Air rushed back out uselessly.

  “I’m here,” Alice said. “I’m here now.”

  Someone knelt beside her. Gentle hands closed around her wrists.

  “Sweetheart,” the officer said softly. “Stop.”

  “No.” Alice shook her head violently and pushed down again. “I can fix this. I can—”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “We tried.”

  The words slid past her without meaning.

  She collapsed forward, forehead pressing to Skye’s shoulder.

  She was light.

  Too light.

  “I should’ve walked you home,” Alice sobbed. “I should’ve stayed. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  She rocked, clutching Skye tighter, as if motion could rewind the street.

  Skye didn’t move.

  A murmur rippled through the crowd. Someone shouted. A flash of blonde caught her eye.

  Another body lay farther up the road.

  Older. Taller. Blonde hair dark with blood. An expensive coat torn open, oil and grit ground into the fabric. One arm stretched out, fingers curled and empty.

  Lexi.

  The realisation landed heavy, without words.

  Alice let out a sound that scraped her throat raw.

  She wrapped both arms around Skye, pulling her close, shielding her as if that mattered now.

  “I’ve got you,” she whispered. “I won’t let go.”

  Sirens wailed closer at last. Blue light washed over the road, the crowd, the night.

  Alice stayed where she was, holding her sister, as the world finally arrived.

  Too late.

  ?

  Time fractured somewhere between the road and the lights.

  Ambulance lights strobed the ceiling — white, then nothing, then white again — like someone flicking a switch they couldn’t commit to. Alice stared at them and counted without numbers, because counting meant order, and order meant control.

  No one told her to let go of Skye’s hand.

  That was how she knew.

  Skye’s fingers lay slack in hers, warmth thinning, like heat draining from metal left out in the cold. Alice focused on the feel of skin against skin, on the faint imprint of Skye’s nails in her palm.

  She hates hospitals, Alice thought.

  She’s going to complain about the lights.

  She’s going to—

  The thought stopped halfway through.

  At the hospital they rushed Skye into a resus room anyway. Not fast. Not slow. Just procedures. People doing what they always did.

  A nurse knelt in front of Alice and spoke softly, like you spoke to frightened animals.

  “Love. I need you to sit just here, alright?”

  Her fingers were eased open — gently, one by one — until Skye’s hand was no longer in hers.

  Alice didn’t remember standing. She only remembered the chair under her thighs afterward, and her hands.

  Sticky.

  She wiped them on her jeans. Once. Twice. Harder, like friction might undo what had already happened. The dark stains didn’t come away. They only smeared, tacky and wrong.

  The corridor smelled sharp and bitter — disinfectant, burnt coffee, something metallic that lived underneath everything else. A trolley rattled past, the wheels complaining. Somewhere a phone rang too long, and when it was finally answered the voice on the other end sounded annoyed, like the person had been interrupted.

  Time didn’t behave properly.

  The doors to resus swallowed people and spat them out again. A paramedic came out with a clipboard. Someone in scrubs laughed — one bright, ordinary sound — and it made Alice’s stomach lurch like she’d been shoved.

  She kept thinking Mum was going to appear and scream.

  She kept thinking she deserved it.

  She kept thinking Skye would walk back out annoyed and embarrassed and say, God,Alice, you’re making a scene.

  The double doors stayed shut.

  Footsteps echoed.

  Not from the main entrance.

  From the ward side — the internal corridor staff used, where the air always smelled cleaner because it never fully belonged to the public.

  Mum came around the corner like she’d been fired out of a cannon and then hit something invisible.

  She still had her lanyard on. Her hair was half out of its tie, strands stuck to her cheeks as if she’d wiped them there without knowing. There was a pen clipped to her pocket. There was a smear of something pale on one sleeve — dry soap, or chalk, or just hospital life.

  For half a second, her face looked like it did at work when she was concentrating: fixed, fast, assessing.

  Then she saw Alice’s hands.

  And her body forgot how to be a nurse.

  Mum stopped so hard her shoes squeaked. Her mouth opened. Nothing came out the first time, like her throat had seized.

  Alice’s chest tightened.

  “Mum,” she said, and the word came out small. Too small for a corridor this bright.

  Mum’s eyes did a horrible, quick scan — Alice, empty chair beside her, the resus doors, the blood on Alice’s jeans — and then her gaze snapped back to Alice’s face as if the corridor had tilted.

  “Where—” Mum tried. Her voice splintered. “Where’s— where is Lu—-Skye—”

  Mum said Skye.

  Alice felt the word land — heavy, correct, and useless now.

  Alice tried to answer. Her mouth moved and no sound came. Her tongue felt like it belonged to someone else.

  “They took her in,” she managed, finally, and it sounded like she was reading a line from a script she didn’t understand.

  Mum’s knees buckled a fraction. She caught herself on the wall with one hand, fingers splayed, like she’d been pushed.

  “No,” she whispered, shaking her head without stopping. “No, no, no—she’s—she’s a child.She’s—”

  Her eyes went unfocused for a beat, like she was seeing something else superimposed on the corridor: the road, the lights, the way it must have looked.

  Alice watched her mum’s face crack.

  Then Mum surged forward and grabbed Alice’s wrists.

  Not violent.

  Desperate.

  Her grip was too tight for comfort, like she was trying to anchor herself by holding onto something that was still alive.

  “Tell me what happened,” Mum said, words tripping. “Tell me— did she breathe? Did she talk? Did she— did she say anything? Was she scared? Did she—”

  “I don’t—” Alice’s eyes burned. “I don’t know. I wasn’t— I—”

  Mum’s head jerked, like she’d been slapped by the sentence.

  She let go abruptly, hands flying to her own mouth. A sound came out behind her fingers — half sob, half gag — like her body was rejecting the reality.

  From the main entrance side, Dad arrived at speed that didn’t suit him.

  He moved like a man who’d driven too fast but kept his hands steady anyway.

  His breath was short. His eyes scanned the corridor the way he scanned rooms — quick, methodical — as if the answer might be a person he’d missed. A nurse. A doctor. Someone to tell him what to do.

  When he saw Mum braced against the wall and Alice in the chair, his shoulders dropped a fraction, like part of him already knew.

  He stopped in front of them.

  “Where is h—Where is she?” Dad asked quietly.

  It was the calm you used when you were afraid that raising your voice would make everything worse.

  Alice tried again. Nothing.

  Mum answered instead, too fast, too sharp. “Resus.”

  Dad’s jaw worked. His eyes flicked to the doors and stayed there.

  He looked at them like if he stared long enough they’d open and give her back.

  The doors did open.

  A doctor stepped out — not rushing, not hesitant — with the practiced face of someone who had done this too many times and still hated it every time.

  He didn’t offer unnecessary softness. He didn’t offer hope he couldn’t afford.

  “I’m very sorry,” he said. “You can come in now.”