Mam shakes her head and smiles. She picks up the sheet of instructions from the bed and glances over it, far too quickly to read it properly, and I know I’ve got her. ‘They look ridiculous. Do they play nursery rhymes?’

Seb is defensive. ‘No! They allow you to control your dreams.’

‘Oh aye? You did that with Cuthbert the crocodile when you were little, Malky. Do you remember?’ I bristle. I haven’t been troubled by crocodile dreams for ages. Mam is properly chuckling now. ‘Good luck with that, boys. If it works, let me know – I’ve got a couple of dreams myself that I wouldn’t mind coming true!’

I smile back at her little joke. I like making Mam laugh. She doesn’t do it often and when I asked her why, about a year ago, she got really sad so I never mentioned it again.

She’s being normal Mam again soon enough. ‘Now, Sebastian, have you finished your holiday project? Well, why not, Seb? It’s only stickers. And, Malky, when did you last wash your hair? It’s like a ferret’s nest. Don’t forget – tonight, please. First day of term tomorrow.’

Later that evening, I’m in the bathroom, looking at my chest. It’s scabbed and raw and still oozing blood in one or two places. I’ve tried to dab at it with a clean sponge. There’s no antiseptic spray in the bathroom cabinet so I’ve smeared a bit of the yak’s butter on the deepest scratch.

‘Outta the way, Malk. I’m dying for a wee! Oh! What you done to … ugh! That looks gross. And what’s that smell?’

Told you. Totally annoying.

‘Get lost. I’m … I’m not well.’

One of the many problems with Seb is that he’s not easily put off when I snarl at him. ‘What did you do?’ he says. ‘That’s blood, that is.’

‘I know. I fell over, okay? Just … don’t say anything. Mam’s got enough to worry about.’ That’s good, I think. I sound responsible, big-brotherly. From the look on his face, though, Seb has joined the dots: he knows my injuries and the Dreaminators are connected.

I pull on my pyjama top carefully to avoid the huge graze. I roll up my T-shirt so as to disguise the bloodstains, and put it at the bottom of the laundry basket.

When Mam comes into our room to kiss us goodnight, she leans over me and tightens the duvet across my chest and I have to remember not to wince in pain and to smile as she says, ‘New school year, boys. Shall we have a story?’