Today is Maddie’s birthday. I’ve baked a cake for her in the school kitchens. My French teacher, Madame Lupion, gave me the recipe for tarte tatin and lent me a special pan from home. First I put a large knob of sea-salt butter into the pan before adding some sugar and heating the pan until the mixture turned to liquid caramel. I then arranged the sliced apples on top, having left them to cool—this, said Madame Lupion, was “très important”; it was even better to put the chopped apples in the freezer for a few minutes and then briefly heat them up. I covered all of this with short-crust pastry and baked the tart in the oven for twenty minutes, left it to cool, and turned it “facedown.” Now I know what Myfanwy Cook meant. Finally, I wrapped the tart in apricot-colored paper and hid it in my locker in the corridor at school.

The hardest thing, though, was asking Madame Lupion what girls’ pajama parties are like.

“What age? Eighteen, fourteen, twelve?” When I couldn’t immediately give an answer, she added, “There’s a massive difference. They still eat cake at twelve, but at sixteen they want vegan smoothies and by eighteen they’re drinking gallons of Bacardi and Coke or some other revolting drink.”

I told her that my (nonexistent) cousin was turning twelve.

“Oh! My daughter and her friends sang along to a romantic dance film when they were twelve. They put pink candles on the birthday cake and blew them out. Some of the girls had makeup parties too.”

“Hmm.” This was starting to feel a bit weird.

“Why do you want to know, Samuel?”

“Oh, no particular reason,” I lied. “Just to make sure I give her the right present.”

“You’re a very wise lad.”

LUCKILY, NONE of the shop assistants at the pharmacy next to Hammersmith Underground station asked why I was buying blue eye shadow, strawberry-flavored lip gloss, pink candles, and a toy microphone.

I scanned the “romantic movies” section of the iTunes Store for a film that contains some dancing and kissing. There’s one called Dirty Dancing or something. I’ve never heard of it, but it seems to be popular. With girls, in any case.

TIME HAS STOOD still at the Wellington. I nod to Sheila at reception, and she gives me a quick smile before returning to her bubble. First I take the lift to the second floor.

I can see it from a distance: the pain is black and pungent, and my father is lying on his front. Why is he on his front?

Dr. Foss intercepts me and presses a mask into my hand. “Only two minutes today, Sam. Your father has pneumonia again.”