It feels as if I’m being thrust upward out of the strange, foaming depths. I wake up in bed. My heart’s beating so hard I can feel its pounding in my neck and temples. It wasn’t a dream. No dream could ever be as close and as real as Maddie’s fear, voice, and hands.

I throw back the covers and all the accumulated warmth instantly escapes. I get up and feel an immediate longing to visit her. What lessons do I have this morning? Assembly, then English. They never check attendance at assembly so I could arrive late.

The Nutcracker, I think. I have to find and listen to it.

I glance at the clock. It’s still early. My mother will be helping Malcolm to get ready, so there’s no way she’ll notice that I’m leaving home earlier than usual. Then, just as I’m hurriedly packing my rucksack and heading out of the house, it happens. The telephone rings.

My mother appears from the kitchen, spots me, signals for me to wait, picks up the phone, and after a couple of seconds, exclaims, “Oh, Madame Lupion!” It flashes through my mind that I’ve missed something or forgotten to take something into account.

My mother listens and replies, “What?” then “No, not that I know of,” and finally “Oh, really? No, he’s fine. He was at Scott’s and . . . What? Yes, of course.” She hangs up and catches me just before I make it out of the door.

“Samuel!” she hisses.

Steve, freshly out of the shower, comes down the stairs and says, “What’s going on? Hey, Fanman.”

My mother’s eyes are glittering with fury, disappointment, and surprise. “I didn’t realize you were a diabetic and have your blood purified three times a week.”

“What?” asks Steve. “How come?”

“Nor did I know that my son is undergoing pain therapy,” she says, ratcheting up the volume. “And I had no idea that I’d written all these things to your teacher and that you’d missed the entrance exams for St. Paul’s!” She points to the kitchen. “Please go in there and sit down.”

Steve slowly follows us into the room, glancing first at me and then at his wife in bewilderment. I take a seat. My mother gives me a glare I’ve never seen on her face before, and my shame is dark red. Malcolm comes into the kitchen, stammering, “M-Mum? Sam?” but she gestures to him to leave.

“Well, you owe your mother an explanation!” Steve orders.

“You keep out of this,” I can’t help saying.

“Wow,” says Steve, “where did that come from?”

It’s very quiet in the kitchen. The only sounds are the ticking of the small clock on the oven and a buzz as the fridge springs into action. My mother looks so tense that I’m scared she’s going to start shouting or spank me.