‘I won’t say anything. But have you thought about telling anyone else?’

I hear laughter coming out of the tunnel down the hill.

Fran and Charlie,

hands in each other’s back pockets.

‘What, like those bozos?’

They both have purple streaks today, like they’ve been swirled in the same pot of paint.

The girl – Fran – waves.

‘Ro!’ she calls. ‘Ro – come down. Charlie’s sneaked a slug of his stepdad’s finest.’

Charlie waves a water bottle half full of

whiskey.

I can still smell it.

On her breath as she said she was sorry – sorry – sorry.

On the carpet as I scrubbed at the stains.

On Jonah’s pillow and school clothes and socks.

‘I’m good!’ I shout over.

Fran throws her arms up. ‘Come on, dude. Don’t be boring. Lunch is nearly over.’

I keep my eyes

on the sky.

‘Are they always like that – your friends?’ I ask as they give up and disappear down the path.

‘They are now, yeah.

Didn’t use to be, though.

We used to hang out a lot.

We met in, like, Year One or something,

bonded over finger-painting.

Charlie’s not really as into art any more,

but Fran is.

She even helped me out with the kraken.

But then they got together and –’

‘– love turned them gross,’ I say, thinking of what Cecelia said when we watched that film.

I laugh.

‘Yeah. Something like that.’

The line of sea in the distance glitters.

‘How about you, Alice? You gross?’

I’m not sure what he’s asking. But the words make my throat dry and my face crack a smile.

‘I could be,’ I whisper.

38

Alice

It’s Wednesday night again and, instead of some strange cure that Dad plucks from his mind, we’re doing something that might actually be useful.

We’re talking to my cardiologist.

She’s my favourite specialist. Not because she’s nice – Dad was right when he said that she has ‘the social skills of a pineapple’ – but because she listens to me and believes that the Illness is real.

‘This beats the commute, eh?’ Dad says, wheeling the desk chair over to my bed as Mum sets up the chat on my laptop.

Travelling to see my cardiologist = more spoons than I have

Dad’s right. It’s so much better this way. Dr Rahman is based all the way in north London. I haven’t seen her in about a year, because last time it took enough spoons to leave me with weeks of fog. But now I don’t need to battle with the spoon-annihilating noise and the flashing lights and the earthquake that is the car. I can do it all from my bed via video link.

It’s strange that Mum is on my laptop, though, and she keeps batting my hand away as the cursor comes dangerously close to opening screenshots I’ve taken of Rowan and Me Living.