The blizzard was absolutely brutal. The roads were buried—no way to walk or drive. The front door of the building was completely blocked by three feet of snow, impossible to dig out. The city wasn’t built for this kind of weather, and the houses weren’t designed to handle nature’s worst. A proper disaster, no joke.
And that night, Emily’s father was dying.
A stroke. No paramedics, no rescue teams—just her, a young neurologist, with a small stash of medical supplies at home.
Her dad had collapsed in the kitchen while putting the kettle on. She hadn’t seen it happen, but spotting a stroke was first-year med student stuff. She knew instantly—this was a major one, and without a hospital, he wouldn’t last till morning.
She called everyone she could think of, even the police. The same answer every time: *”We’ve logged your call. Help will come as soon as possible.”*
No one was coming. She knew that. But she’d never forgive herself if she didn’t try. She dragged her dad to bed, his body completely paralysed, his moans the only sound. Anticoagulants were out—too risky. Aspirin first, then intravenous steroids for the brain swelling. Blood pressure was low—no beta blockers needed.
Now it was just waiting. Emily moved like an automaton—by the book, no room for emotion. Just hollowed-out stillness.
Then, as if things weren’t bad enough, the power cut out. The flat plunged into darkness, suddenly claustrophobic. The furniture seemed to swell, the air thick as syrup, every sound sharp and too loud. Her dad’s breathing was ragged but steady—no groans, which was something. Meanwhile, Emily barely breathed at all.
*”Just get to morning,”* she whispered—just to hear her own voice, to remind herself she was still alive.
And that’s when someone hammered on the door.
Emily jumped, equal parts startled and relieved. *Help had come*—who else would be out there? She bolted for the door, bashing into every corner on the way. Fumbled with the lock, yanked it open—and was nearly blinded by the glare of a torch.
*”Hey,”* said a voice from behind the light—a voice she *hated*.
It was just her neighbour. James. A man in his forties who acted like a teenager, utterly shameless. A walking disaster—could go months looking like a wildman, then suddenly shave his head into a mohawk and dye it neon green. The kind who’d pick fights with policemen, who’d never held a job but somehow always scraped by.
For her—someone who’d spent her youth memorising anatomy, sketching organs and bones—his existence was offensive. People like him shouldn’t belong in decent society.
She wanted to slam the door, but James wedged his foot in. Blatant invasion.
*”You alright?”* he asked.
*”Get your foot out,”* she snapped.
She was scared of him, always had been—every interaction left her recoiling.
*”Fine,”* he said, pulling his foot back and lowering the torch. *”Just thought you might need help.”*
*”Not from you.”*
*”So you do need help,”* he pointed out. *”You got water? Any in the flat?”*
*”Good God, there’s a kettle! Or I can just turn on the tap!”* She tried to slam the door again.
Ugh, the *audacity*. But this time, he didn’t stop her. Instead, he left a five-litre bottle of water on the doorstep before trudging back to his own flat—the one right next door, with walls too thin to block out his drunken rants or terrible harmonica experiments.
*”Absolute menace,”* Emily muttered.
Then it hit her. She rushed to the kitchen—tap shrieked, dry. The five-litre bottle sat untouched on the threshold between her and the outside world.
Next, James came back with batteries and a torch—something *she*, the doctor, hadn’t even thought of. She should’ve been the one saving the day, at least for their building.
*”I really want to tell you to piss off,”* Emily admitted when he handed her the lit torch.
*”Go for it,”* he shrugged. *”Just tell me—how’s your dad?”*
*”You drinking buddies or something? Why do you care?”*
*”Not buddies. Just asking. How is he?”*
*”Stroke,”* she blurted. *”We need an ambulance.”*
James turned sharply in his battered flip-flops and vanished back into his flat. Emily was alone again. With her dying father. A five-litre bottle of water. A torch.
*”He’s awful, Dad. Seriously. Just some useless drunk—you’d have arrested a whole regiment of his sort…”*
The torch, though—that was a godsend. She managed to check her dad’s blood pressure, dig out a glucose IV from her supplies, and set up a drip. Tried the kettle—nothing. Even the gas was dead.
She wanted to cry. A qualified neurologist, powerless to save the one person who mattered—all because of too much snow? What was the point of years of study, training? She’d never felt so helpless.
Then James showed up *again*.
*”You’re in a bad way, Emily. I know trouble when I see it,”* he said. He was dressed like an Arctic explorer, all fur and thick padding, carrying a duffel bag stuffed with gear—woollen sleeves and socks spilling out.
*”I don’t believe this. But fine, come in,”* she relented.
*”Actually, I’m rescinding the invite,”* he said, stepping inside anyway. *”We can get your dad to hospital. You’re the doctor—you monitor him. I can walk through snow. Your dad’s a fighter. Between the three of us, we’ll manage.”*
He unzipped the duffel, pulled out a massive sleeping bag.
*”Bundle him in here… Callum, that’s his name, right?”* James faltered, suddenly awkward, like a teenager. *”—Your dad. You got splints?”*
*”Yes. I’ll set them,”* she said, clipped. Surprised at how easily she slipped into work mode—like back in the hospital, when emergencies rolled in and hands were short.
*”Splints first, then the bag,”* James ordered.
Emily wasn’t used to taking orders. *She* was usually in charge. But right now, she didn’t need logic—she needed help, hope, someone to share the load. And the last person she’d ever expect was giving her all three.
*”How exactly are we managing this?”* she asked, fitting the neck brace.
*”Hospital’s a mile away,”* James said. *”If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed because of the snow…”*
*”We’re walking? Through *that*?”*
*”Yeah, they don’t teach this in med school. But I can’t stick a needle in a vein. We all have our strengths,”* he muttered from under his shaggy hat. *”Spine intact?”*
*”What?”*
*”Your dad. Any spinal issues?”*
*”Minor herniation at L5-S1, but mild. Muscle relaxants would help,”* she answered automatically.
*”Can I carry him two floors? Or do we need a stretcher?”*
*”Stretcher. No question.”*
*”Right. Wait—”* And just like that, he vanished into the dark hallway.
Metal clanging downstairs, muffled voices—too long, agonisingly slow. Then a shout:
*”Sod off, you posh gits! And *you*, Liam—stay out of my way or I’ll break your nose!”* Classic James.
Emily sighed. This wasn’t happening.
More noise, more talking. Then footsteps on the stairs.
*”Keep it quiet, don’t break anything,”* James announced, reappearing.
People shuffled past him into the flat. In the dark, it took Emily a second to recognise the couple from the second floor—not her favourite people either. Carless, always struggling. The kind she privately called *”the embarrassing poor.”* But these *embarrassing* people had a stretcher—two old plumbing pipes and a tarp, solid enough.
They bundled her dad into the sleeping bag, loaded him onto the stretcher. James took one end, the neighbours the other.
*”You hold the IV,”* James commanded.
She didn’t argue. For once, things were happening without her—no begging, no explaining. She held the drip while the neighbours carried the stretcher.
Then chaos. James dragged the sleeping bag on a plastic sled like some beast of burden. Emily focused on keeping up, keeping the glucose bottle warm. For the first time in her life, she walked on snow with makeshift wooden skis—*”hunting skis”*, James had called them, though God knew why heAs the hospital doors slid shut behind them, Emily realised that sometimes the last person you’d expect to save you is the one who does.
