She smiled, despite the worry. William. She’d had a crush on him at school, but he’d been three years ahead of her, and three years was three decades back then. He’d kissed her for the first time when he left last weekend, a proper ‘this is leading to something seriously more’ kind of kiss.

She was still smiling when she fell asleep.

She dreamed. Dreamed of sitting strapped into a special seat, one that kept her upright, her arms supported but still able to move feebly. A spoon moved towards her; soft, mushy food slid down her throat. She longed to grab the spoon, to feed herself, not with mush but the chops and baked potatoes Tim and Sharon and the others were tucking into, those lucky others who wore callipers on their legs or wheeled their own chairs.

But this time she was an adult, not a six-year-old girl, with a nappy that would be changed by the kindest hands in the world but she didn’t want to be grateful, just to be free . . .

No, she thought. I am free. Two decades of intensive therapy, working long beyond the hours her therapists required, every centimetre of her small frame made of determination and hope. And she had got there . . . or perhaps whatever still unknown condition had caused a baby to be born with almost no muscular strength had simply faded . . . But it didn’t matter because as soon as she woke, she would be able to walk . . .

And suddenly she did wake; she woke to terror as she tried to push the blankets from her too-hot body, but the blankets had turned to granite, impossible to move. She pushed again, managed to turn and switch on the light, but even that was an enormous effort, the kind it had been ten years earlier when she’d had to concentrate even to eat an ice cream . . .

She looked at the bedside clock. Six am. She’d had eight hours sleep, but every hour had drained her, not refreshed her, as if a vampire had sucked on her in the night.

Not a vampire. Just her body. Her traitorous, treacherous body that had let itself fall back to weakness just as she had thought her life was finally opening to normality. No — for who wanted to be normal? Into wonderfulness: a career she loved, a man she was very, very near to loving, a life of fulfilment stretching before her.

Gone. Vanished. Her hands like weights again. Her head ached. Her throat felt like someone had lit a bushfire in her larynx . . .

She blinked, marshalling her thoughts again. Sore throat? And she felt hot. A fever then. She lifted her far-too-heavy hands and felt her neck, the swollen glands on either side.

And grinned.

She managed to pick up the phone and dial again. ‘Jed! It’s me. Guess what! I’ve got mononucleosis. Epstein-Barr virus. Glandular fever, you ignoramus. I’ll be fine in a few weeks, but I won’t be able to come down. Yes, yes, I’ll call a doctor, but have you ever known me to give a wrong diagnosis before? Okay, ever known me to be wrong since I was ten years old? Oh, Jed, I’m so happy. I’ve got mono.’