I can hear Mam and Uncle Pete murmuring outside, talking with a nurse. Seb looks like he’s hardly moved since this morning. He’s still for ages, then he twitches a bit – maybe his hand, or his eyes move behind the eyelids, then he’ll return to stillness, only his chest moving up and down under the bedclothes. There’s a drip attached to his arm, and something else leading from his wrist, and a strip of something stuck to his forehead.

‘Hey, Lil-Bro,’ I say. I feel self-conscious. No one can hear me, but then Seb probably can’t, either, so it’s all a bit odd, like I’m talking to myself. There’s a chair next to his bed, so I sit down and take Seb’s left hand in both of mine. I’d never hold his hand normally, of course, but this is anything but normal. I run my fingers over the raised red marks on his wrist. Have they got worse?

Perhaps, in the dream, he’s twisting and turning to get away? Perhaps, like me after the Hitler dream, he’s dreaming that he’s awake? Or is he just stuck in a static dream-state, unaware of what’s going on? I hope it’s that. I can’t bear to think of him terrified all this time: aware that he is in a dream, but unable to escape it.

The marks are definitely worse. I wonder if anyone has noticed? I’m thinking about telling someone when Seb jerks his arm away and then turns his head on his pillow. For a glorious moment, I expect his eyes to open and his stupid, gappy grin to reappear and I start to smile …

He gives a little grunt, then a gasp and a sort of little cough, then his body twitches again. He doesn’t wake, but I notice he has started to sweat. There’s a few seconds of this; some numbers on a screen above him start changing rapidly, though I’ve got no idea what any of them are.

Seb’s twitches are becoming bigger, and his head moves from side to side. Then there’s a beeping sound coming from the machine. It’s like he’s in a fight with an invisible attacker.

‘Seb! Seb, man!’ I shout. ‘Wake up!’

I look at his writhing head and I gasp: a huge red mark has appeared below his left eye, spreading down his cheek. It’s exactly as though he has been punched in the face, and the sweat is now pouring off his forehead. The beeping of the machine continues, and a nurse dashes in, ignoring me, and studies one of the screens. She hits some buttons, the beeping stops, then she goes to the door and calls down the corridor.