But it’s still there, and so is Mum.

Looking up I can see gaps in the ceiling where the roof has caved in. The stars shine down at me, winking, and the moon waves. It’s like they’re here to help me.

The sandstorm has disappeared now, replaced by a gentle breeze sailing through the cracks in the walls. It howls like a sad puppy waiting for its owner to return.

I stand in front of the door, memory box in hand, and wait, half expecting the door to fly open.

I wait.

And wait.

Nothing happens.

I try twisting the doorknob but it’s still locked.

This can’t be right. There are no more memories, I’m sure of it.

I try to say something instead. ‘Mum? I have the memory box . . . I finished the challenges . . . I –’ I falter. I feel silly.

Something on the other side of the house thuds against the floor, hard.

I turn, afraid. That’s when the ceiling above me starts to tumble, concrete showering me in dust. I scream, and glance between the door and the crumbling house. And I make my choice: I run.

I dash down the stairs, memory box in hand. Is it too late? Was I too late?

I try not to think of it as the banister crumbles to ash beneath my fingers. It’s dying, the house is dying, just like Mum.

Tears stream down my face as I run out of the door, pull the gate open and dash across the street. When I finally reach the limits of the game I turn to see the world, Mum’s world, crumble behind me like a sandcastle destroyed by the waves of an angry ocean.

But in one blink I’m back in the hospital, Mum sleeping peacefully next to me. The gates are replaced with curtains, the dying house with Mum’s monitor, its steady beep and rhythm the only indication that she’s still alive.

Nothing has changed. I didn’t save her. I was wrong.

And the realization slaps me hard in the face, so hard I wish I had tumbled down, down, down with the house. I wish I had been washed away to sea like a sandcastle, or swept away by the wind.

Chapter 37

‘How did it go, Saff?’ Dad asks when I get into the car. He knows I was taking the memory box in today to show Mum. He doesn’t know the real reason why.

‘That’s OK, if you couldn’t show her the box today. There’s more time until . . .’ He can’t finish the sentence, so I finish it for him. In my mind, at least.

Until we switch off Mum’s ventilator.

‘We can try again,’ Dad says determinedly instead.

I bristle at his words. We don’t have any more time. But he doesn’t know that, because he doesn’t know about the game.