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even
though the shelving had collapsed and the floor was a swamp of wine
and broken glass. They searched for a time and then came upon a
corpse. And then came the cry.
    “We got a live
one here!”
    Paramedics went
in and carefully brought the injured man out on a stretcher. He was
unconscious and someone even dared joke about that being the result
of two days and nights immersed in fine vintage wine. But in fact
he had been lying on a raised bench with the corpse of another man
on top of him. They found a few minor lacerations and a great deal
of contusion; he had serious respiratory problems and something
similar to scurvy had glued his clothing to his flesh. But he was
alive.
    Eighty-five
people had died, two hundred and thirty-three were rescued from the
ravaged area, forty-two were admitted to hospital needing intensive
care, eleven were missing never to be found. Brian Carrick was the
last miraculous survivor of the triple eruption on Tongariro
plateau.

*

    Gavin served
breakfast on the patio—it was a rare treat. He enlisted the aid of
the girls as waitresses while Wendell scanned the newspaper.
    “They’ve
unearthed another survivor,” he announced, perhaps not realising
the cruelty of his words.
    Felicity tried
not to care. She had obeyed Barbara’s orders. Long sleep, two
meals, time with the family. Gavin should have been at school, she
knew, and the girls at childcare, and Wendell at his rooms. They
all took the morning off because mum was finally awake. Breakfast
was at ten that morning.
    Melissa spilled
the grapefruit juice on her dressing gown, Megan slopped too much
skimmed milk into the muesli, Gavin had boiled the egg thirty
seconds too long, and the croissant was cold by the time Wendell
filled it with blackberry jam. In other words, it was the most
perfect breakfast she could ever remember. And the freshly brewed
coffee, after gallons of the muck at the hospital, was a joy in
itself.
    “Amazing after
all this time,” Felicity murmured.
    “Ah,” Wendell
grinned. “Am I to assume that your lack of interest indicates the
crisis is over?”
    “What makes you
think I’m not interested?”
    “You let me
read the paper first. Didn’t jump up and rush off to the hospital
when you heard about your new patient. I regard all this as
indicative of your recovery.”
    “I’ll get there
soon enough.”
    “Well, at least
it banished politics from the front page for a few days,” Wendell
mused.
    “There wasn’t
much lava,” Gavin protested.
    “What happens
to the people when their toes are coma-ed?” Melissa asked.
    “Your mother
doesn’t wish to talk about that,” Wendell scolded gently.
    “You didn’t
come home for three days,” Megan said, crawling into her lap.
    “Meegs, mum is
tired,” Melissa said bossily.
    “She’s all
right,” Felicity smiled. Her knees, like her back, were still very
stiff. She had pushed it all right. Still, she was rested and
feeling good. Then the telephone rang.
    Wendell went
and answered it, and returned immediately. “Possibility one,” he
said sourly.
    With a groan,
Felicity set Megan back on her feet and found her own and hurried
through the house.
    “Dr Campbell
here.”
    “Oh, Dr
Campbell,” Shirley Benson blubbered on the other end. “We had a new
IC patient come in overnight...”
    “Yes, Shirley.
I heard.”
    “CT was clear,
but he’s in a coma—like the others. Can’t really justify it from
his condition.”
    “What major
traumas do we have?”
    “None really,
except his epidermis is falling off...”
    “Truly?”
    “He was pickled
in wine, apparently.”
    “Lucky bugger.
I wish I was.”
    “I really
shouldn’t have rung you at home but...”
    “What’s your
problem, Shirley?”
    “Do you want
him isolated, like the others?”
    “Yes. Have any
of them showed signs of consciousness?”
    “No.”
    “Okay. Yes,
isolate him too. I’ll be there in a couple of hours anyway.”
    “Fine...”
    “Is everything
else