It wouldn’t go.

She wasn’t brave enough. She had to be. More traction. She pulled and it moved. Just.

More traction. Twist…

And she heard it. Crepitus. The grating sound that fractured bones made as they moved against each other. Crepitus was an awful name for an awful sound but now she almost welcomed it.

Had she done it?

Maybe.

Her fingers were on his leg and she felt-she was sure she felt-the pulse return. She stared down, willing the colour to change. And in moments she was sure she wasn’t imagining it. There was a definite improvement in the skin tone of the toes.

The man stirred and groaned. Little wonder. If someone had done to her what she’d just done to him, she’d have screamed so hard she’d have been heard back in Melbourne.

‘Don’t try and move,’ she said urgently, her voice unsteady-but he didn’t respond.

‘Can you hear me?’

Nothing.

OK. What next? She’d saved him from a dead leg. Well done, Lizzie. Now she just had to save him from cerebral haemorrhage, or internal bleeding, or by being run over by another car as he lay in the road.

Her thoughts were cut off by another moan. The guy stirred and moaned some more and then shifted. He was finally coming round.

‘You mustn’t move,’ she said again, and he appeared to think about it.

‘Why not?’ His voice was a faint slur but it sounded good to her. Not only was he gaining consciousness, he was gaining sense.

‘You’ve been hit by a car.’ She moved again so that she could see his face, stooping so her nose was parallel to his. ‘You’ve broken your leg.’

He thought about that for a while longer. She’d laid her face in the mud beside his so that he could see her and she could see one of his eyes. She knew that he’d desperately need human contact and reassurance but she daren’t move him further.

It was a crazy position to be in, but panic could make him move. He mustn’t panic. So she lay in the mud so that he could focus.