6. Are the rules the same? #2
‘Sats are borderline really, 94%,’ Jordan continued.
‘Her respiratory and heart rate are up a touch, so I’ve started her on a trickle of oxygen.
She had a low-grade temp earlier too. I’ve given her some painkillers ‘cause she looked uncomfortable. The medic on call’s coming to see her.
She’ll need a chest x-ray at the very least, though, Dyl. ’
Dylan nodded. ‘Yeah. Okay. Good.’ She scratched the back of her neck. ‘Why didn’t you text me?’
‘I did, mate.’
‘Shit, Jord, I’m sorry. My phone must still be on silent… I was in the library. I’m really sorry.’
‘That’s alright,’ Jordan smiled fondly.
‘Has she had a coughing bout while her feed was running? You don’t think she’s aspirated again, do you?’
Dylan dragged a chair to Margaret’s bedside.
Jordan was right, she didn’t look good. Pressing her mouth to her mum’s forehead Dylan inhaled.
No matter the products they used or Margaret’s favourite perfumes, she always just smelled of Mum.
It was a scent Dylan wished she could bottle and keep forever.
‘We good, Margells?’ she whispered against her skin. Her mum blinked slowly, nostrils flaring, the base of her throat tugging, in a bid to drag in more air. ‘Don’t you worry. We’ll get you sorted. Won’t we, Jord?’ Dylan looked at the nurse, who offered a kind smile.
‘Course we will,’ Jordan replied, amplifying her cockney accent. ‘We ain’t gonna stop now, are we?’
A couple of hours passed before the on-call doctor arrived and the decision was made that Margaret had to be admitted to hospital.
As Dylan had packed her mum’s clothes and essentials, she had felt a familiar dread.
She hated the irony of how hospital admissions had the potential to compromise her mum’s care.
The years of woeful NHS underfunding, staffing shortages and the never-ending scramble for resources made the process a challenging one.
It wasn’t lack of heart or devotion from the nurses, but the system simply couldn't match the level of care Dylan had perfected over the years. Their home setup was a well-oiled machine, and inpatient stays threatened to derail it. These days, however, Dylan knew when to acknowledge her own limitations; she couldn’t do it all, but admitting that she sometimes couldn't handle it all at home felt like a personal failure.
After a long night of waiting, Margaret was finally settled in a bed on the Acute Admissions Unit at South Manchester District General.
By some stroke of divine intervention, a bed had become available, sparing them an agonisingly long wait in A she knew every grimace, every frown, every line.
After another long day at the bedside, Dylan caught the tram back home.
With a loudly grumbling stomach, she headed straight for the kitchen, and pushed two slices of bread into the toaster.
Leaning back against the counter, she pulled out her phone.
There was nothing from Scortare, much to her relief.
They’d been disgruntled, after she had told them she was unavailable for the week but she didn’t have the energy to care.
Her clients would have to get by with their vibrators for a few days, or God forbid, their husbands.
As she waited for her toast, she opened her university inbox.
Her eyes locked onto the most recent unread email.
Subject: Mentor Allocation Program
07678 999212
Greta
Snapping her weight off the counter, Dylan gripped the phone with both hands, pulling the screen closer to her face, despite there being nothing wrong with her vision.
What the actual fuck? Unable to blink, she stared at the number until the air stung her eyes.
The toast popped up behind her, the sudden snap jarring in the silent kitchen.
‘Shit!’ she hissed at the toaster. ‘Made me jump, you stupid bastard.’ Leaving the toast where it was, her eyes burned into her screen as she read the email again.
Was that Greta’s number? It had to be. Who else could it belong to?
She checked the email sender again. Definitely Greta.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ she whispered. Slowly lowering herself onto a chair at the kitchen table, she punched the digits into her contacts and hit save, her heart hammering against her sternum.
She didn't have a plan. She didn't even have a move. Her thumbs bounced over each other as they hovered over the glass before the silence of the room became too much. ‘Oh, fuck it!’ she snapped aloud, bringing them down to open WhatsApp, immediately opening Greta’s profile picture. A sunset. ‘Bollocks.’
She had been hoping for a personal photo, something different from the professional headshots, or various conference pictures she’d found on Google—because of course she had Googled her after they had met.
It was impossible not to be impressed by Greta’s academic achievements and accolades, sure, but she wanted to see her at ease, more personal.
Greta had no social media presence either, much to Dylan’s dismay.
After typing and editing several text messages she closed WhatsApp.
She considered calling, then remembered it was 2026 and nobody did that anymore.
She thought about replying to the email with her number to force Greta to make the first move, but it felt childish.
Finally, she re-opened WhatsApp and settled on:
‘Hope you are ok. Dyl St J xxx’
No. Too desperate. She shaved off two kisses, then deleted the whole thing. She typed again: