I look up, and just about see where the water ends towards the top of the house. If I let go of the banister, I’m going to float up, up, up.

I push myself off the bottom of the stairs and try to swim to the bathroom door a few metres away. But, as I kick off the bottom step, my body floats upwards even as I propel myself forward.

I almost make it across. My fingers trace the edges of the door frame, but I can’t get a grip, and I float away from it like a discarded piece of rubbish in the ocean.

I’m running out of breath now. I know nothing will happen to me here – it’s only a game – but what if something happens to Mum? It’s her mind after all. If I run out of breath before I turn off the tap, will it keep running even after I’ve left the house?

I don’t think any more. I don’t have time to. I just act.

I let the ceiling of the foyer catch me and kick off it like a frog. My fingers manage to grab the frame of the bathroom door this time. Now I just need to get from there to the tap. I use all my remaining strength to force my body down. I miss the tap the first time and bounce upwards, slamming against the ceiling.

I try again, and this time my fingers clasp it. I’m so happy I could scream with joy, but there isn’t enough air left in my lungs. My chest is burning now and I can see spots forming in front of my eyes like stars. I swear I can hear the hospital monitor, like I’m being pulled out of the game.

The tap’s slippery, because it’s made of metal, but I hook my legs under the sink to keep myself still. I turn, and turn, and turn it off.

The water stops flowing; I can tell because the bubbles have gone. And, just like a giant plug has been released, all the water in the house disappears.

I fall from halfway up the room and collapse on to the floor.

I sit up, gasping for breath, holding on to my throat, but when I look around I’m in the hospital again.

Puddles of water surround Mum’s bed. But as soon as I blink they’re gone.

I pat myself down and find that I’m entirely dry. Then I check Mum’s monitor. I sigh with relief when I see it’s all OK. The squiggly line is flowing across the machine steadily, just like before.

She’s OK.

Mum’s going to be OK.

Chapter 17