The blizzard was absolutely savage. Roads were buried—no way to walk or drive. The front door wouldn’t budge, sealed shut by three feet of snow, with no hope of digging out. Not exactly a northern town, so the houses weren’t built for this kind of weather tantrum. A proper disaster, no joke.
And that night, Natalie’s father was dying.
A stroke. No ambulance, no rescue squad—just her, a young neurologist, and her modest stash of medical supplies at home.
He’d collapsed in the kitchen while putting the kettle on. Natalie hadn’t seen it happen, but spotting a stroke? That was first-year med school stuff. For her, it was obvious: apoplexy. Without a hospital, he wouldn’t last till morning.
She called everyone—police included. Same answer every time: “Your call’s been logged. Our team will reach you as soon as possible.”
No one was coming. Crystal clear. But she’d never forgive herself if she didn’t try. She dragged him to bed, her father groaning, fully paralysed. Anticoagulants? No good. Aspirin, then, and IV prednisolone for the brain swelling. Blood pressure? Low. No bisoprolol needed.
Now, just waiting. Natalie moved like a machine. Textbook perfect. No emotions, just a hollow void inside.
Then, as if things weren’t bad enough, the power cut out. The flat went dark, cramped—like the furniture had swollen and the air thickened to syrup. Every sound turned sharp, loud. Her father’s raspy, steady breaths. No groaning—small mercies. Natalie herself might as well have stopped breathing.
“Come on, morning,” she muttered, just to hear her own voice, to remind herself she was still alive.
And right then, someone hammered on the door.
Natalie startled, equal parts frightened and relieved. Help, finally—who else would be knocking? She bolted for the door, bashing into every obstacle en route. Fumbled the lock, yanked it open. A blinding torchlight hit her square in the face.
“Alright?” said a man’s voice from behind the glare. Disgustingly familiar.
It was just her neighbour. A right nuisance named Vincent, stuck in permanent adolescence. She couldn’t stand him. Forty going on fifteen, the man was a walking disaster—could go months looking like a caveman, then suddenly shave a mohawk and dye it neon green, pick fights with the local bobby, pull any number of stunts. Somehow, he never worked. Yet, somehow, he lived.
To her, a woman who’d spent her youth buried in textbooks and anatomy sketches, his entire existence was offensive. People like him had no business in polite society.
Natalie tried slamming the door, but Vincent wedged his foot in—sheer audacity, borderline criminal.
“You alright in there?” he asked.
“Move your foot,” she snapped.
She was afraid of him, recoiled every time their paths crossed.
“Righto,” he said, actually pulling his foot back and lowering the torch. “Just thought you might need a hand.”
“Not from you.”
“So you *do* need help,” Vincent deduced. “Got any water?”
“For heaven’s sake, there’s the kettle! Or the tap!” She bristled, shoving the door again.
Insufferable man. This time, though, Vincent didn’t resist. Instead, he plonked a five-litre jug of water on the threshold and strolled off—back to his flat, just through the wall. The same wall that did nothing to muffle his drunken rants, botched guitar sessions, or harmonica massacres.
“Absolute menace,” Natalie grumbled.
Then it hit her. She hurried to the kitchen. Sure enough, the taps gasped empty. The five-litre jug sat untouched on the borderline between her flat and the outside world.
Next, Vincent reappeared with batteries and a torch. Something she, a *doctor*, hadn’t even considered. She should’ve been the one saving the day, at least for the building.
“I’d love to tell you to sod off,” Natalie admitted when he handed her the freshly loaded torch.
“Go on, then,” Vincent shrugged. “But first—how’s your dad?”
“What, you two go on benders together? Why do you care?”
“Didn’t drink with him. Just asking. How is he?” Firm. Direct.
“Stroke,” she blurted. “Needs an ambulance…”
Vincent spun on the heel of his battered flip-flops and vanished behind his scuffed door. Natalie was alone again. With her dying father. A jug of water. A torch.
“He’s a menace, Dad. Proper menace. You’d have had him locked up in your day…”
The torch, admittedly, was a godsend. She checked her father’s blood pressure, dug out a glucose drip from her supplies, set it up. Tried the kettle—nope. Even the gas had given up.
She wanted to cry. Here she was, a qualified neurologist, helpless to save the one person who mattered. All because of *snow*? What was the point of med school, then? Of her training? She’d never felt so useless.
Then Vincent returned.
“You’re in a right state, Natalie. I’ve got a nose for trouble, trust me.” He was kitted out in some Arctic explorer gear, straight out of a vintage photo. A duffel bulged in his grip, stuffed with more of the same—woolly sleeves and knitted socks spilling out.
“I don’t trust you. But fine, come in,” she relented.
“Invitation noted,” he said, stepping inside. “We can get your dad out,” he announced. “You’re the doc—you monitor him. I’m decent in snow. Your dad’s a fighter. Three of us, we’ll manage.”
He unzipped the duffel, pulled out a sleeping bag thick enough for Everest.
“Bundle your dad in—Uncle Vic… Victor,” Vincent corrected, suddenly awkward. “Got splints?”
“Yeah. I’ll strap him,” she said briskly, surprised at how easily it came. Like back in A&E, when chaos hit and hands were few.
“Splints first, then the bag,” Vincent ordered.
Natalie wasn’t used to taking orders. Usually, *she* was in charge. But right now, facts and logic didn’t matter. She needed help. Hope. And the most infuriating man alive was offering both.
“Manage *what*, exactly?” she asked, fitting the neck brace.
“Nearest A&E’s a mile off,” Vincent said. “If Mohammed won’t go to the mountain ’cause of snowdrifts…”
“We’re *walking*? Through *that*?” Natalie gaped.
“Not in your curriculum, eh? Well, I can’t stick a needle in a vein. Each to their own,” Vincent muttered from under his shaggy hood. “Your dad’s spine alright?”
“Who?”
“Uncle Vic—” He caught himself. “*Your dad.*” Gruff.
“L5-S1 herniation, mild. Muscle relaxants advised,” she rattled off automatically.
“Can I carry him two floors, or d’you need a stretcher?”
“Stretcher. Definitely.”
“Right. Hang tight.” Vincent vanished into the dark stairwell.
Metal clanged below, muffled voices arguing. Endlessly. Then a shout:
“Piss off, you posh gits! And Ilya—show your face round here again, I’ll rearrange your nose!” Classic Vincent.
Natalie sighed. This was hopeless.
More banging. More murmurs. Footsteps trudging upstairs.
“Keep it quiet, no smashing,” Vincent directed, reappearing in the doorway.
People filed past him. In the dark, it took Natalie a second to recognize the couple from the second floor—not exactly her favourites either. Car-less, always skint. The kind she’d dismiss as “down-and-out.” But these down-and-outs had a stretcher: two lengths of old plumbing pipe and an army poncho. Sturdy, somehow.
They bundled her father into the sleeping bag, hoisted him onto the stretcher. Vincent took one end, the neighbours the other.
“You mind the drip,” Vincent ordered.
Natalie didn’t argue. Oddly, she felt light. Almost relieved. Everything was happening without her orchestrating it—no begging, no explaining. She held the drip. They carried the stretcher.
Then—chaos. Vincent hauled the sleeping bag on a plastic sled like a pack mule. Natalie focused on keeping up, shielding the glucose bottle from the cold. She’d never walked on snow with “hunting skis” before—misnamed planks Vincent had, inexplicably, in his drunkard’s stash.
Vincent himself ploughed ahead on snowshoes like tennis rackets, unwavering, never getting lost.
“Got a profession too, y’know,” he said. “Geologist. Mostly desk work now. But I’m old-school fieldwork. Can’t teach this old dog new tricks.”
“So why the boozing? NoNatalie stood there, watching Vincent trudge back into the blizzard for another rescue, and for the first time in years, she found herself smiling—just a little—at the thought of the world’s most infuriating man.
