Mr Keytes beckons me.

Does he mean just me, or the whole team?

He beckons me again.

A big roar echoes around the room, but I didn’t hear who it was for, because as I walk across the basketball court it’s as though I’m moving in slow motion through a wall of noise.

Mr Keytes steps aside and lets me through the door.

‘What is it, sir?’ I asks. ‘Did I do something wrong?’

‘No.’ Mr Keytes shakes his head. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s your granddad.’

‘What? What’s the matter?’ I look down the corridor in panic. ‘Where is he?’

‘Outside,’ says Mr Keytes. ‘He’s being looked after in the ambulance . . . Felix!’ Mr Keytes makes a barrier with his arm. ‘Felix, please don’t panic. The right people are looking after him now.’

‘But, you don’t understand. I need to see him.’

‘Felix!’

I push Mr Keytes’s arm away and run outside.

Blue Lights and Disinfectant

I sprint down the corridor. My heart beats twice as fast as my feet move and I dodge past people in the reception.

Get out of the way.

Get out of the way!

I push the sports centre doors open. There’s an ambulance parked at the bottom of the steps with the back doors open. A paramedic in a green uniform is standing by the doors.

I jump down the steps.

‘Granddad!’ I yell.

‘Whoa!’ The paramedic holds me back. ‘He’s fine.’

‘Then why’s he in the back of an ambulance?’ I try to wriggle free.

Inside, another paramedic taps a plastic tube that is going into Granddad’s arm. ‘Your granddad is okay.’ She turns to me. ‘But you’re not going to help him if you panic.’

‘But I am . . . Can you just let me see him?’

‘It’s all right, Martin, let him through.’

Martin lets go of me and I take a step into the ambulance. Granddad’s sitting in a wheelchair with a blanket pulled up to his chin. His hat is squished on the ambulance floor.

‘Granddad,’ I say. ‘Are you okay?’ I wait for him to answer, but he can’t because he’s got an oxygen mask over his mouth. The smell of disinfectant creeps up my nose and reminds me of when I used to visit Grandma in hospital.

‘Just sit quietly.’ The paramedic points to a bench inside the ambulance. ‘Your granddad’s going to be fine,’ she says softly.

They used to say that about Grandma too, but really she wasn’t. I sit down, slowly. Granddad doesn’t look fine. His face is as white as the moon and his eyelids are droopy. He lifts his hand.

‘No, Francke,’ says the paramedic, ‘don’t try to move or talk.’ Then she turns to Martin and says, ‘BP one hundred and eight over sixty-eight, HR ninety-six.’

‘What does that mean?’ I ask. ‘Is it serious?’