It’s not a migraine, although they can hide in the fog. It’s like standing in a forest but not being able to see any trees. It’s like stumbling on something and knowing what it is but forgetting the word for it. It’s like being yourself and not being anyone at all, all at once. And all in a body that’s battling with a sudden stuttering heartbeat, burning muscles and fever sweats.

I try to sleep, but I’m not tired. I’m exhausted. And I never realized how those two things could be different until the Illness hit.

I have something, though. A window. Before we left the tunnel, I asked Rowan to send me his phone number. And I have it now in my phone – a number that will stay in place no matter whether my brain can process it or not.

Through the fog, I send him a message.

Take me to school?

My phone buzzes like a ship’s horn, blasting through the mist.

Ugh. Okay. I need to show my face
there at least once a week, I guess.

And that thought wraps round me like a life raft, keeping me bobbing on the surface until I can find my way back.

21

Alice

The fog has lifted, but it’s left my limbs feeling dog-tired.

I try to sit up when Cecelia pops in, but I don’t have the spoons.

She stops at the door. ‘Oh man – migraine day again?’

I nod, because that’s easier to explain. She comes over to lie with me in bed.

‘You get these more than anyone I know. Maybe you should spend less time watching the wrinkly streamers? Too much screen time always brings my mum’s on.’

I smile and bury my head in her shoulder. ‘Shhhhh,’ I say. ‘Quiet time.’

She drops her voice to a whisper. ‘Sorry. Let me show you what I’ve got planned for the party next Friday – that’ll cheer you up.’

We lie silently as she flicks through images of rainbow cakes and playlists of songs we used to sing into hairbrushes. I rest my head next to hers and breathe in her body spray. Green tea. That was on the Cure Board once, but it didn’t work. It still smells nice, though. Like home.

Cecelia and I used to have the best sleepovers. We’d stay up late, watching scary films and eating squirty cream straight from the can. We’d build forts in her bedroom out of pillows and sheets, all of them smelling like her. And although we had to take them down in the morning, those forts felt more like home than any other place I’ve ever been.

Even this room, with the cracks and imperfections I know like the back of my hand.

Cecelia’s phone buzzes and I see a text from her mum flash up, shouting at her for not emptying the dishwasher.