

THEY went out to the waiting area where Tom was. Of course he was waiting. He was grey-faced and sick.
Lizzie had slivers of glass in her fingers. If she could have, she would have taken them out herself, but operating on her right hand with her left was impossible. She waited until Harry had talked to May's mum and dad and three kids, and then did a round of the little hospital's patients, all of whom were deeply upset by the afternoon's events. If he wondered why she didn't offer to help, he didn't say so---indeed, she had the impression that he'd have told her she wasn't wanted. She made her way back to the doctor's quarters and hugged Phoebe, drawing comfort from the big dog's placid and dopey presence.
He had the gentlest hands.
She'd known that he wouldn't do anything with it but this was awful. The night stretched before them. They had to eat together. They had to share a kitchen. But there was nothing to say that wasn't loaded.
Lizzie lay in her bed that night and she'd never felt so bleak in her life. Phoebe lay right on top of her. Usually she heaved the big dog off. She was so heavily pregnant that she weighed a ton---all right, she weighed a ton even when she wasn't pregnant---but tonight she was the only comfort Lizzie had.
'Why are you here?'
The vet was succinct and reassuring. 'Don't fret. Unless she's clearly distressed, the best thing is to let her be. Tell you what. I'm going out to see a cow in labour now. That'll take me half an hour or so. What if I pop in and do a house call on Phoebe after that?'
'Emily's back.' Lizzie was barely in Lilly's room before the teenager burst forth with her news. Word travelled fast in Birrini.


