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was all quiet when I left.'
    'Just as well,' said the boss as he went off, shaking his head.
    Yona couldn't face the staff canteen for lunch. Mike may or may not already have pointed the finger in her direction but, either way, she'd feel terribly guilty if she heard any talk of his accident. And—horrible thought—he might even be in the canteen himself. By all accounts, he was dedicated enough to be working that day. She bought a sandwich to eat in her room, but first she checked with Ortho to see.
    'Sorry, Dr MacFarlane,' she was told, 'but Mr Preston has sustained an injury to his right foot and won't be in before Monday. Would you like to speak to his registrar?'
    It was the obvious question, but Yona hadn't foreseen it. She mumbled something about it not being urgent and rang off.
    She would have to go and apologise to him at home, then. But first there was the afternoon to get through.
    She was down to lecture to physiotherapy students. The talk she gave she'd given several times before in Edinburgh so she was confident and it was well received. But when it came to questions afterwards she soon discovered that— like students north of the border—they were adept at putting queries that were hardly mainstream.
    'Please, Dr MacFarlane, why don't animals get rheumatoid arthritis?'
    'Why do people not get distemper or hardpad?' asked Yona. 'I think you'd better ask a vet that one—I'm afraid I don't know.'
    Next. 'Why aren't copper bangles available on the NHS?'
    That was a bit easier. 'Because only remedies which have been proven effective in clinical trials are prescribed. Now, if anybody has a question relevant to my lecture...'
    As with students everywhere, that was the signal for a general exodus and Yona was free to give her mind to the problem of Mike Preston's foot. Back in her room in Outpatients, she was trying to think how in the world she could ever apologise sufficiently when the plaster technician rang to ask if she'd remembered she was deputising for Dr Price today.
    That meant two or three hours of making plaster splints for the new ward patients and it was well after six when Yona eventually parked in her place in the underground garage at Park View. The block was L-shaped and, as always, she was glad that Mike lived in the other wing, about as far as possible from her own flat.
    The nearer she got to his door, the less confident she felt. This was the most difficult thing she'd ever had to do.
    After two rings, and what felt like hours, Mike came to the door himself. He wore a loose, dark sweater which had seen many better days and a pair of scuffed jeans with the right leg chopped off at the knee to accommodate a bulky below-knee plaster, with a weight-bearing rubber rocker under the sole. His foot had been immobilised in slight plantar flexion and an old sock over the forefoot prevented Yona from seeing the damage to his toes, which must have been considerable.
    'To what do I owe this pleasure?' he asked after an awkward few moments of charged silence.
    Yona raised her anguished eyes from his foot to meet his steady stare and her heart missed a beat from sheer fright. 'I—I thought I ought to come,' she got out at last in a wobbly voice.
    Mike looked puzzled. 'Because you're a neighbour, or because it's an old Scots custom?' he asked.
    'I'd like to think that the English also apologise for causing serious bodily harm,' she faltered. She was doing this badly. And she'd meant to be so quiet and restrained and dignified. No wonder he was looking as though he didn't know what on earth to make of her!
    She must try harder. 'I've not come here to make excuses,' she said more steadily, despite a quivering bottom lip. 'I was careless—criminally careless—and I'm dreadfully ashamed and appalled. I hope you can accept my sincere apologies for running over your foot—but if you can't, I—I really couldn't blame you.'
    There! She'd done it. Not very well, but at least it was over...
    After what felt like