‘Let’s make tracks, Mac!’ said Theo, grabbing his hand, pulling him towards the door. ‘C’mon!’

The word spun around the screen, faster and faster, till it was dizzying just to look at it, and then stopped moving and began to flash.

NOW!

‘C’mon, Mac! Let’s go!’

Still barely aware of what he was doing, still holding her hand, he turned again and, with small hurried steps, made his way out the door, moving faster and faster, leaving behind his world, his life and, on the table in his now-abandoned home, his communicator.

7

Pain. Coursing through his chest. Burning, stabbing, ripping, searing, paining. And he kept running. Not really knowing which way he was going, only that he was getting further and further away from his home. The world rushed by, blurry and confused, vague shapes changing every so often, although he scarcely registered them as he passed. He felt the wind, though. In his eyes and through his hair and round his face and up his nose. Still, he kept running. Until the fire in his chest was burning so fiercely that it was feeding on the very air in his lungs and there was none left to breathe and he had to stop or asphyxiate in his tracks.

He stood, bent over, drawing deep, hacking breaths, feeling the burning in his chest spread and then recede slowly, imploding into itself like a shrinking puddle. From the corner of his eye, he saw the girl looking at him, eyebrows raised, as if she were surprised.

‘Run much, Mac?’ she asked.

He couldn’t answer—he had no breath. She grinned at him.

‘Didn’t think so.’