Something hums in my belly, like a swarm of bees on a mission. It works its way up, up, up until I absolutely have to see Mum.

I need to at least try to save her, don’t I? I can’t give up yet!

I just need the final object: the perfume. I know it has to be that because Mama gave it to Mum in the last memory.

I jump out of the bath, water splashing everywhere. With my favourite PJs on I run into my room. But something’s different. My bed sheets have been changed. Instead of yellow stars they’re covered in pink flowers. My room has been tidied too, all while I’ve been in the bath. I can no longer smell the perfume, all I can smell are the hot chocolate and cheese and Marmite toasties sitting on my bedside table.

No. No. No.

I run down to the laundry basket, which sits just off the kitchen, and pull everything out. They’re not there.

‘What are you looking for Saff?’ Dad asks, peering at me from the living room. ‘Did you have a nice bath?’

Lady runs up to me and sniffs all the discarded clothes on the floor.

‘Where are my bed sheets?’ I demand.

‘On your bed,’ Dad says, obviously confused.

I scowl. ‘Not those!’ I snap. ‘Where are the starry ones?’

‘In the wash.’ He nods at the washer, which is on right now.

My eyes widen. In between the swirling water and bubbles are my starry bed sheets, the perfume washing out of them and down the drain.

‘What have you done?’ I yell and it’s as if the fire has ignited in my belly again. But this time it’s dangerous, like it might spread too far and burn down an entire forest.

Dad frowns. ‘I changed your bed sheets,’ he answers. I never yell at him. Ever. ‘Saff, are you OK? Did you want to talk about –’

‘No!’

And then I grab the memory box from my room and bolt out of the house.

‘Saff !’ I hear Dad calling me. ‘Saff !’

By the third call I can no longer hear anything but my heart thudding in my head.

When I get to Mum’s flat, after twenty minutes of furious biking, I rush to her bedroom again.

I can smell it, smell the perfume as clear as I could weeks and weeks ago.

I tear all the clothes from her wardrobe until I find her favourite jacket. The smell is overpowering.

With the bracelet round my wrist, the now empty perfume bottle in the pocket of Mum’s jacket, and the memory box in my arms, I run the rest of the way to the hospital, abandoning my bike.

I can see the hospital building at the end of a narrow path, and I feel like Dorothy as she crosses the poppy field to get to Oz.