The blizzard was relentless. Roads were buried—no way to walk or ride through. The front door wouldn’t budge, sealed shut by three feet of snow, hopeless to dig out. The town wasn’t built for such northern fury, its houses ill-prepared for nature’s wrath. A proper disaster, no joke about it.
And on this night, Eleanor’s father was dying.
A stroke. No ambulance, no rescue—just her, a young neurologist, and the meager stash of medicine and tools she kept at home.
He’d collapsed in the kitchen while putting the kettle on. She hadn’t seen it happen, but recognising a stroke was first-year med school stuff. For her, it was immediate: apoplexy. He wouldn’t last till morning without hospital care.
She called everyone—even the police. The same answer each time: *”Your call has been logged. Help will come as soon as possible.”*
No one was coming. That much was clear. But she’d never forgive herself if she didn’t try. She dragged him to bed, his body limp, his voice reduced to groans. No anticoagulants—too risky. Aspirin, then prednisolone intravenously, for the brain swelling. Blood pressure? Low. No bisoprolol needed.
All she could do was wait. Eleanor moved like a machine, following protocols, textbook steps. No room for emotion—just hollow stillness.
Then, as if things couldn’t worsen, the power cut out. The flat went dark, the walls closing in as if the furniture had swelled, the air thick as treacle. Every sound too loud. Her father’s breathing—rasping but steady. No moans—small mercies. And Eleanor? She might as well have stopped breathing altogether.
*”Just let morning come,”* she whispered—just to hear her own voice, to know she was still alive.
And then, a thunderous knock at the door.
Fear and relief crashed into her at once. Help had arrived—who else would be out in this? She bolted for the door, banging into every sharp corner along the way, fumbling for the lock. Swinging it open, a blinding torchlight hit her face.
*”Evenin’,”* said a voice from behind the glare—disgustingly familiar.
It was just the neighbour. A wretched man named Alfred, cursed with the maturity of a fifteen-year-old boy let loose from parental oversight. She despised him. A layabout who’d go months looking like a wildman, then shave his head into a mohawk and dye it neon green for a laugh. The sort to pick fights with constables, to live without a job, yet somehow still breathe.
To her—a woman who’d spent her youth memorising bones, organs, and nerves—his very existence was offensive. Men like him had no place in decent society.
She moved to slam the door, but Alfred wedged his foot in the gap—pure cheek, borderline criminal.
*”You alright in there?”* he asked.
*”Move your foot,”* she snapped.
She was afraid of him. Every interaction left her recoiling.
*”Fair enough,”* he said, pulling back—lowering the torch. *”Just thought you might need help.”*
*”Not from you.”*
*”So you* do *need help,”* Alfred deduced. *”Got water? You stocked?”*
*”For heaven’s sake, there’s a kettle! Or the tap!”* She tried shutting the door again.
Insufferable. But this time, Alfred didn’t resist. Instead, he left a five-litre jug of water on the threshold before disappearing back into his flat—just a wall away. A wall that did nothing to muffle his drunken rants, his awful guitar strumming, his mangled attempts at harmonica.
*”Repulsive man,”* Eleanor muttered.
Then—hesitation. She crept to the kitchen. Sure enough, the taps groaned dry. The water jug stayed where it was, a silent offering at her doorstep.
Alfred returned with batteries and a torch. Something she, a doctor, hadn’t even thought of. She should’ve been the one saving others—at least in this building.
*”I’d love to tell you to piss off,”* she admitted as Alfred handed her the lit torch.
*”Go on, then,”* he shrugged. *”Just tell me—how’s your dad?”*
*”You on drinking terms with him, are you? Why do you care?”*
*”Not my drinking mate. But how is he?”* His voice was firm, uncharacteristically serious.
*”Stroke,”* she blurted. *”We need an ambulance—”*
Alfred turned on his heel and vanished into his flat. She was left alone. With her dying father. With a jug of water and a torch.
*”He’s awful, Dad. Truly. A proper wastrel—you’d have locked up half his sort back in your day…”*
The torch, at least, was a blessing. She checked her father’s pressure, dug out the glucose drip, set up the IV. Tried the kettle—nothing. Even the gas had given up.
She wanted to cry. A trained neurologist, powerless to save the one person she loved. What good were her years of study, of training, if snow could undo it all? She’d never felt so helpless.
Then Alfred reappeared.
*”You’re in a bad way, Eleanor. I know trouble when I see it,”* he said. Dressed in some Arctic-explorer get-up—straight out of an old black-and-white photo. A duffel bag slung over his shoulder, stuffed with woolly jumpers and thick socks.
*”I don’t trust you. But fine—come in,”* she relented.
*”Actually,”* he said, stepping over the threshold, *”we’re moving him. You’re the doc—you keep him stable. I’m the one who can walk through this mess. Your dad’s a fighter. Between the three of us, we’ll manage.”*
He unzipped the bag, pulling out a heavy sleeping bag.
*”Bundle him up—Uncle Arthur—er, Arthur,”* Alfred stammered, awkward as a schoolboy. *”Your dad. Got splints?”*
*”Yes. I’ll brace him,”* she said, brisk, surprised at how easily the words came—like back in hospital, when emergencies rolled in and time was short.
*”Splints first, then the bag,”* Alfred ordered.
She wasn’t used to taking orders. She was the one in charge. But logic didn’t matter now. She needed help—hope. And the most insufferable man alive was offering both.
*”What exactly are we managing?”* she asked, fitting the neck brace.
*”Hospital’s a mile off. If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed with all these drifts…”*
*”We’re walking? Through this?!”*
*”Aye. Not in your textbooks, is it? But I can’t stick a needle in a vein. ‘All men learn—just not the right things,’”* he muttered, adjusting his shaggy hat. *”Your dad—his spine alright?”*
*”Who—?”* She blinked, then recalibrated. Strange, accepting that her father—a retired colonel, once feared—was just *”Uncle Arthur”* in this odd little world of theirs.
*”Your dad,”* Alfred snapped impatiently, fishing out more gear.
*”L5-S1 herniation, mild. Muscle relaxants would help,”* she recited automatically.
*”Can I carry him two floors? Or d’you need a stretcher?”*
*”Stretcher. Absolutely.”*
*”Wait then,”* he said, vanishing into the dark stairwell.
Metal clanged below—muffled voices, an argument. Then a shout: *”Sod off, you lot! And Ilya, show your face ‘round here again, I’ll break your nose proper!”*
Eleanor sighed. This was hopeless.
More noise. Then footsteps.
*”Moving quiet, no damage,”* Alfred announced, reappearing.
People shuffled in—the couple from downstairs. Not her favourites, always scraping by. What she’d call *”the embarrassed poor.”* But they had a stretcher—two old pipe scraps and a tarp. Sturdy enough.
They bundled her father into the sleeping bag, hoisted him up. Alfred took one end, the neighbours the other.
*”You hold the drip,”* he commanded.
She didn’t argue. A strange lightness took her—decisions made without her, things just *happening.* No begging, no pleading. She clutched the IV; they carried the stretcher.
Then—chaos. Alfred hauled the bundled figure on a plastic sled like some stubborn ox. Eleanor focused on keeping up, shielding the glucose bottle from the cold. For the first time in her life, she walked on snow with makeshift *”hunting skis”*—Alfred’s dubious term—strapped to her feet.
Alfred ploughed ahead on snowshoes—tennis-As the hospital doors closed behind them, Eleanor realized that the worst blizzards could sometimes bring out the best in people—even in those she’d sworn to despise.
