Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter.

I listen carefully, not sure I know what he means. I know the line, but why is he quoting Yoda at a time like this? There’s a shower of sparks as the cutting torch hits the wheel arch, and I shield my own eyes as well as his. The fireman glances at me, apologetically, and I try to smile, but there's no sincerity in it.

Just get him out.

There's a nod, brief and business-like, and the sparks begin again. I feel the pressure on my hand increase, and then begin to lighten. I look around, panicked, for the paramedic, but she's busy with the woman in the other car, the one surrounded by blood and oil. The scene is disconcertingly colourful in the July sun; shiny green car paint, flashing blue lights, the fluorescent jackets on the people wandering around.

I'm not afraid.

I shake my head, throat too swollen to speak. There's nothing to be afraid of, I want to say, we're getting you out of this. What comes out is this:

I'm here.

His eyes drop closed, his fingers slip from mine, and for a moment I can almost see him fade away. I wait until I'm fairly certain there’s no-one there anymore, and then I walk over to the ambulance and tell them. I get back into my car and switch off the siren. I'll radio control in a minute and tell them the accident has become a fatality.