“Charlie? Do you want to play paramedics?” Charlie’s mum called through from the kitchen. In the living room, surrounded by toy cars, building blocks, stuffed teddies and musical keyboards, Charlie climbed up from seated and walked over to his fancy dress corner. He picked up the toy stethoscope and fastened it around his skinny neck. The toys were brand new, unlike the rest of the room. The paint was peeling, cracked from the floor to the ceiling. Patches in the carpet disguised the fact that carpet was so dirty the colour was now an orange rust, rather than the original cream. Even the lampshade had a crack in the frayed fabric, but at least Charlie had clean trousers, an ironed shirt and toys with batteries and all the pieces. Charlie shuffled from the living room through to the kitchen down a dimly lit hallway. He paused at the phone, watching the little red lights blinking a number too high for him to count. After a moment, he scooped it up, and placed it in the pocket of his trousers, just in case. In the kitchen, his mum was laying on the floor, in the same position she always was when they played this game. She smiled at him but the smile seemed forced. He studied her, momentarily, trying to work out whether this was a trick or not. She didn’t call him through to play often, but he knew this game - they played it at least once a month. “Mummy, are you ok?” Charlie asked, a slight quiver to his voice. Then the game took over. Leaning down, he took the stethoscope to his ears, and placed the pretend metal to his mum’s chest. Holding his fingers out, he counted the beats he could hear, whilst listening to her breathing. After 10 fingers, he told her her breathing was good, and reassured his patient. Tilting her head back, slightly, he used his fingers to find a pulse, whilst she played the perfect part. He giggled, nervously, until he’d found the faint thump thump of her pulse beneath his fingers. Her skin was tracing paper, and he always slowed slightly here so he could feel the bones and tendons. Her veins were pencil lines beneath the paper, and he followed the line along her neck with his finger. “‘Scuse me, mum, can you tell me what hurts?” He said, fully in role now. He noted the patient didn’t respond, so he asked again, “mummy? Does this hurt?” And he poked her shoulder. She let out a gentle giggle; an involuntary response from the cold of his fingers against her skin. It was her turn to lead the game, slightly, and give her son something to go on. “Can you remember the word ‘vodka’?” She asked him, watching him nod, mentally taking note. “Good, then let’s pretend this patient has had too much to drink.” “Right,” he muttered, hesitating, as she closed her eyes again. In his head, he ran through the games they’d played in the past: she’d been a homeless person who was dying from the cold; she’d been the patient with the cut that needed stitching; she’d been in a fight and needed patching up. But she hadn’t been a drunk, and he couldn’t work out how to apply those earlier games to this one. “Right,” he repeated, still holding the toy stethoscope, and scratching his right leg with his left foot. Then, he remembered. Recovery. He shifted her body to its side, and she muttered a word that sounded like good; he couldn’t tell, her face was half smooshed into the flooring. He lifted her knee, moved her arm, tilted her head and checked her breathing again. He was winning this one, he was sure. He noted the coolness of the tiles, and could see the dirt making their white seem grey. Spatters of spaghetti bolognese spilled down the sides of the cabinets, onto the ground, but he couldn’t remember when they’d had spaghetti last. Next to his mum, he saw a pile of vomit: orange, green and foamy, splattered with shards of white lumps still whole scattered throughout the mess. “I think it’s time, baby,” his mum said and now he knew. Picking up the phone, he dialled the number he knew by heart. “Hello, 999, what’s your emergency?” The familiar voice at the end of the line said, patience and kindness flooding into his cold kitchen, warming the space and filling Charlie like helium in a balloon. He felt his body swell, and knew he was safe. “Hi, Mrs Operator. It’s Charlie...” Charlie whispered, scared to break the calm now in the room. “It’s something to do with vul-car this time,” he explained, trying to remember the new word he’d been taught. “Okay, Charlie. They’re on their way. You’ve done so well. Will you stay there with her again? Charlie, you’ve done so well.” And her words stayed with him, after the real paramedics arrived, after his mum was taken to the hospital, after the ambulance ride, after the questions and throughout it all he held the stethoscope, clutching one end in his tiny hand. He used the other hand to keep his mum’s cold hands warm as she started to stir and look round for him. The bright lights caused her to blink a few times before she could focus on her son. She clutched his hand, his little fingers inside her fist. “Good game, son,” she said, her words sharp and cutting in the still air.