‘No!’ I say. It comes out louder than I mean it to. And I stand up too fast, nearly knocking Dara out of Dad’s arms.

‘Charlie! What are you doing?’ says Mum, shocked. She drops the phone, and it clatters on to the hard floor and flashes, taking a picture of nothing, all by itself. I start to back away from them, towards the door.

At that exact moment the door swings open again. But this time it’s not the friendly nurse, it’s the doctor. And she’s not smiling.

RESULTS

‘Sorry,’ I mumble, getting out of the doctor’s way.

She gives me a little nod, then she comes in properly, picking up Dad’s phone from the floor and handing it to Mum. She stands at the foot of Mum’s bed.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Merriam, Mr Merriam,’ she says. She has an accent that makes the ‘r’s in our name sound kind of purr-ish. I look at the cardboard folder in her hand; the results of Dara’s tests and scans will be in there.

The doctor taps her pen on the folder; her eyes dart lizard-like from Mum to Dad to Dara to me and back to Dad again.

‘Might be best for your eldest to go and … have a little play, while we have our chat.’ She clicks her pen and opens her folder. ‘There’s a playroom just along the corridor.’ She gives me a brisk smile, then her lizard eyes flick to Mum and Dad.

I feel my cheeks going red.

‘OK. Yep. No problem,’ says Dad to the doctor.

I watch as he so carefully passes Dara to Mum. The baby stops crying almost right away then, like Mum has the magic touch or something. Dara’s not asleep though; my brother’s starey eyes are still open and he half looks like he’s gazing over at me. I stare back at him, feeling cross and sad and sorry and worried all at once.

The lizard doctor click-clicks her pen.

‘Charlie?’ says Dad. ‘Did you hear the doctor, love?’

‘I’m going,’ I say, my voice all tight and weird.

Mum turns towards me but I don’t see what kind of look she’s giving me because I’m walking away by now already.

‘Hey, Charlie,’ says Dad in a really fake-sounding cheerful voice, holding the door for me. ‘Here, take this.’ He hands me his green canvas backpack. ‘There’s change in the front pocket – get yourself a drink from the machine. I’ll come and find you in a bit.’

I take his stupid backpack and the door shuts itself slowly behind me.

I peep back through the criss-cross glass. Mum sits so still on the bed, like a wild-haired sculpture of herself. Dad nods as he listens to what the doctor says, his eyebrows squeezed close together.

For as long as I can remember I’ve imagined what it would be like to have a little brother or sister. I’d always thought it would feel like we were all bigger, stronger, just better if there were more of us. Our house would be loud and hectic and mad like Beaky’s. But this doesn’t feel at all like how I imagined it.