Come to think about it, she hadn’t had any for a couple of weeks, so why was she having themnowwhen she hadn’t consumed any caffeine at all this evening?
Nora switched on the bedside lamp and took a deep breath. Then realised that the vision in her one eye was blurry again.
Oh hell;she had a feeling she knew what was going on, but without being able to test her glucose levels (should she invest in a monitor?) she couldn’t be a hundred per cent certain.
This wasn’t a hangover, she suspected, but itwasprobably due to what she’d consumed, because she’d dumped a shed load of carbs into her system.
Panicking a little, she squinted one-eyed at her phone as she typed in what she could do about it.
Drink loads of water to try to help flush the excess sugar out of her bloodstream and do some exercise was the advice, so Nora got dressed, slipped her feet into some trainers, grabbed her water bottle, and headed out the door.
This was ridiculous, she thought, as she marched through the dark streets. This wasn’t what she should be doing at one o’clock in the morning. And on her own, too. If she’d had Biscuit with her, she wouldn’t feel quite so ridiculous. Or nervous.
Despite having lived in Picklewick all her life and knowing most of its residents (by sight, if not personally), Nora was tense and jittery. Anyone could be about. And as she walked around a corner, she realised how true that was, when she saw the unmistakable figure of Elijah Grant running towards her.
Startled, she stopped walking and her mouth dropped open. Elijah was almost upon her before he realised she was there and, equally surprised, he skidded to a halt.
‘What are you—?’ she began, at the same time he said, ‘Why are you—?’
‘You first,’ he said. A streetlamp illuminated his face, and as he flexed his leg, she noticed him wincing.
‘I didn’t think you were supposed to be running,’ she accused, suspecting he’d been playing her, because, unless she was very much mistaken, running was precisely what he was doing.
‘I’m not.’ His expression was sheepish. ‘I couldn’t sleep, and I got to thinking…’ He trailed off.
‘You wanted to see if you still could?’ she guessed sympathetically. Hadn’t she kind of done the same thing herself tonight?
He nodded.
‘It looks like you can,’ she said, a seed of hope beginning to germinate. If he could run again, would that mean he’d no longer want to adopt Biscuit?
‘Yeah,’ he agreed. He didn’t seem happy about it, though.
‘But?’
‘It hurts.’ His admission was stark, accompanied by a tightening of the lips.
‘Does that mean…?’
‘That I definitely won’t be running anymore? I’m afraid so.’
‘You were hoping they’d got it wrong, weren’t you?’
‘Wouldn’t you?’ His gaze was level.
That wasexactlywhat she was hoping when it came to her own diagnosis, but she hadn’t been prepared to take the risk. She was due another blood test in a little over two months, and she was praying that her “number” would have gone down, and that her diabetes would be in remission. Maybe she was also hoping that her GP would say, ‘Sorry, we made a mistake, you’re not diabetic after all’, even though she knew that would never happen,
‘Anyway,’ Elijah said, ‘why are you walking the streets in the middle of the night?’
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ she replied truthfully. ‘I ate a really heavy meal earlier,’ she added, also truthfully.
‘Been out long?’
‘Ten minutes.’
‘How much longer are you planning on staying out?’
Probably until she needed another wee. She shrugged. ‘Until I feel tired.’ Not true: she felt tired now, but she couldn’t work out whether it was genuine tiredness or because her body wanted to slip into a food coma.
