The blizzard was relentless. Roads vanished beneath towering drifts—impassable by foot or vehicle. The front door wouldn’t budge, barricaded by snow piled three feet high. This wasn’t a northern town; houses weren’t built to withstand nature’s fury. A proper disaster, no exaggeration.
And that night, Emily’s father was dying.
A stroke. No paramedics, no rescue teams—just her, a young neurologist, armed with a meager stash of medicine and tools.
He’d collapsed in the kitchen while putting the kettle on. Emily hadn’t seen it happen, but spotting a stroke was first-year med school stuff. She knew instantly: without hospital care, he wouldn’t last till morning.
She called everyone—police included. The same robotic reply: *”Your call has been logged. Emergency services will reach you as soon as possible.”*
No one was coming. That much was clear. But she’d never forgive herself if she didn’t try. Dragging her father to bed was agony—his paralyzed body dead weight, his voice reduced to groans. No anticoagulants. Aspirin first, then intravenous prednisolone for the brain swelling. Blood pressure? Low. No bisoprolol, then.
Wait. That was all she could do. Emily moved like an automaton, textbook-perfect, hollowed out.
Then, as if things weren’t bleak enough—the power died. The flat plunged into darkness, the air thickening like syrup. Furniture loomed larger; every sound sharpened. Her father’s ragged breathing cut through the silence. At least he wasn’t groaning. Emily? She barely breathed at all.
“Just hold on till morning,” she whispered—just to hear her own voice, to prove she was still alive.
Then—a thunderous knock at the door.
Emily’s pulse spiked. Hope and dread collided. *Help?* Who else would brave this storm? She stumbled forward, bashing into furniture, fumbling for the lock. The door swung open—blinding torchlight seared her vision.
“Alright there?” A man’s voice, gruff and—horribly familiar.
It was just her neighbour. *Oliver.* A man-child stuck in perpetual adolescence. She despised him. Forty going on fifteen—unkempt hair one month, a neon-green mohawk the next. Brawling with constables, jobless, yet somehow surviving.
For Emily, who’d spent her youth memorising anatomy textbooks, his existence was an insult. People like him didn’t belong in civilised society.
She lunged to slam the door. Oliver jammed his foot in the gap—pure audacity.
“Need a hand?”
“Move your foot.” Her voice icy.
She’d always recoiled from him.
“Fine.” He lowered the torch. “Just thought you might be in a spot.”
“Not from you.”
“So you *are* in trouble.” Oliver smirked. “Got water?”
“For God’s sake—the tap’s right there!” She shoved the door again.
This time, he didn’t resist. Instead, he left a five-litre jug on the threshold before vanishing into his flat—the same one whose thin walls failed to muffle his drunken rants or terrible harmonica solos.
“Absolute wanker,” Emily muttered.
Then it hit her. She hurried to the kitchen.
The taps gasped dry.
The water jug sat untouched—her lifeline.
Oliver returned with batteries and a torch. Basics she, a *doctor*, had overlooked.
“I want to tell you to piss off,” she admitted as he handed her the torch.
“Go on, then.” He shrugged. “But how’s your dad?”
“Since when do you care?”
“Just answer.” His tone hardened.
“Stroke. Needs an ambulance—” The words spilled out before she could stop them.
Oliver spun on his heel and vanished.
Emily stood alone. Her dying father. A jug of water. A torch.
“He’s a waste of space, Dad. A proper drunk…”
But the torch was a godsend. She checked his blood pressure, dug out glucose, set up an IV. The stove? Dead. Even the gas had quit.
Tears threatened. A qualified neurologist, powerless to save the one person who mattered—all because of snow? What was the point of her degree? Her training?
Then Oliver reappeared.
“You’re in over your head, Emily.” He wore an Arctic-grade parka, looking like some old polar explorer. A duffel bag bulged in his grip, stuffed with woolen socks and gear.
“I don’t trust you. But fine—come in.”
“No need.” He stepped inside anyway. “We’re getting your dad to hospital. You’re the doctor. I can haul arse through snow. Between us, we’ll manage.”
He unzipped the bag. A thick sleeping bag tumbled out.
“Bundle him in. Got splints?”
“Yes.” Her reply clipped, professional—like she was back in A&E.
“Splints first, then the bag.”
Taking orders wasn’t her style. Yet tonight, she needed help—not logic. And the man she loathed was offering both.
“How exactly are we managing this?” she asked, fitting the cervical brace.
“Half a mile to A&E.” Oliver adjusted his scruffy beanie. “If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed…”
“You’re joking. We’re *walking*?”
“Med school didn’t cover snow trekking, eh?” He grunted. “Spine intact?”
“L5-S1 herniation, mild. Needs muscle relaxants.”
“Can I carry him, or do we need a stretcher?”
“Stretcher. Definitely.”
“Right.” He vanished again.
Metal clanged downstairs. Muffled voices. A shout:
“Piss off, you posh gits! And Ilya—show your face round here again, I’ll break your nose!”
Emily sighed. *Hopeless.*
More clattering. Footsteps.
“Keep it quiet,” Oliver ordered, reappearing.
Strangers filed in—the couple from downstairs. Always skint, always borrowing things. Emily had dismissed them as “sad cases.” Yet here they were, lugging a makeshift stretcher—water pipes lashed to a tarp.
They bundled her father into the sleeping bag. Oliver took one end. The neighbours gripped the other.
“Hold the IV,” Oliver commanded.
No argument. For once, things were happening *without* her steering. She tightened her grip on the glucose bottle as they hoisted the stretcher.
Chaos followed. Oliver dragged the sleeping bag on a plastic sled like some stubborn ox. Emily fought to keep pace, shielding the IV from the cold. She’d never strapped on snowshoes before—Oliver’s ancient hunting pair dug from his junk pile.
He ploughed ahead on tennis-racket-like contraptions, unerring.
“Got a degree too,” he muttered. “Geology. Just nobody hires field guys anymore.”
“So you turned to the bottle?” she snapped.
A shrug. Silence, till they reached the dim glow of A&E.
Inside, she barked orders at nurses, demanded scans, fought for control—until Oliver’s rough hand steadied her.
Only when her father was wheeled away, the IV bottle empty, did she crumple.
Sleep took her on a sticky hospital bench. Oliver stayed—quiet, watchful—as staff shuffled past.
“Dr. Whitmore?” A nurse nudged her awake. “Your father’s stable. Well, as stable as post-stroke gets. Moved to Ward Five.”
“Thank you.” Her voice cracked.
“Go home. Rest. You’re a doctor—you know what’s coming.”
Emily blinked, scanning the room.
“The man with me—scruffy, bearded…”
“Ah, your superhero?” The nurse chuckled. “Brought in two critical cases already. Husband?”
“No.”
The word lodged in her throat.
*Pity.*
