Laughter. Coming from the front door.

Then I see it. Something shoots across the room, like a star.

I realize it’s a young girl, followed by another.

They pass by me so quickly I don’t see their faces – just a blur of long curly hair as they bolt up the stairs.

I jump and drop the bracelet, my heart pounding.

It clatters on the table, startling me.

When I next look up I’m back at the hospital by Mum’s bedside. My glasses have fallen from my face and on to the floor while I was sleeping.

As I put them on and look around the same thing happens as before.

The heat.

The sand.

Except this time, instead of silver branches I see leaves everywhere, crawling up Mum’s bed, reaching for her.

I rub my eyes and after that they’re gone. I wave my hand in front of my face like before and it blurs, making me feel dizzy.

I wait until the feeling passes, and then I rush out of the room without saying goodbye.

Another strange dream, I think.

Those girls . . . The curly hair. It can’t be, can it?

Then I wonder, almost hope, will it happen again?

Chapter 8

I remember the day Mum and Dad told me they were splitting up. Mum had collected me from school; it was the afternoon we broke up for the Easter holidays. She wasn’t very talkative during the walk. Usually she was always full of stories and chatter. I never understood how one person could have so much to say, especially as I’ve always been bad at conversation. I could never articulate how my days at school went, and I could tell that Mum found my one-word answers frustrating. We would play this game over dinner where she would ask me questions that got more and more specific. I used to call it Sherlock Investigates, although Mum never knew that.

‘How was school today, Saff?’

‘Fine.’

‘Did you get any English homework?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you have to do?’

‘Write a poem.’

‘What kind of poem?’

And by this point she will have cracked it. I’d end up talking through the lesson and everything I’d learned. Just when I thought it was over, Mum would ask me about another subject, and the process would start all over again.

By the end of the meal we’d both be exhausted. Mum from having to think up all the questions, and me from wondering how to answer them well enough for her to leave me alone.

Dad would usually pipe up with random observations that would have nothing to do with our conversation.

‘Did you know that peanuts are actually a legume?’ he would say.

Then Mum would take one look at me and smile, and we’d burst out laughing.

‘What?’ Dad would ask. ‘What’s funny?’

But that night was different.