“J-Jackson!” I stammer, and force a smile. “Hi!”

“Well, hello to you, Miss Santos. And who’s your friend?” Jackson strides toward us, beaming.

“Th-this is Ramzy. Ramzy Rahman.”

Ramzy smiles and raises his hand in greeting, flashing me a panicked glance at the same time. I half expect him to do his “Ramzy Rahman, sah!” salute, but he doesn’t. Nerves, I guess, but I’m relieved.

“Hello, Ramzy. The name’s Jackson. I’m an old friend of Georgie’s family.” He thrusts out his huge hand, and Ramzy shakes it.

From somewhere inside Ramzy come the words, “How do you do?” which delights Jackson. He straightens his back and puts his head on one side.

“How do you do?” he repeats. “Very well, thank you, my friend. And what brings you here?”

OK, so here’s a tip if you’re ever thinking of sneaking in anywhere, like a hospital, say. Have a story planned. Make sure you know what you’re going to say if you’re challenged. Rehearse it. Check it for flaws. That way, you won’t do what I do, which is to say, “Erm…ah, we’re…erm…ah…”

That doesn’t sound good. Jackson’s eyes narrow a bit and he glances down at the flowers. He must know that they’re stolen and I find myself flushing with shame. He turns his head to me during my pathetic stumbling. It’s Ramzy who digs us out. Smooth as you like, he says, “It’s my great-grandmother. She suffered a stroke, and we’ve come to visit her. She…she may not have long left.”

He’s faking but he is brilliant. He even makes his voice choke on the last bit, like he’s really upset. Jackson is taken in completely.

“Do you know where she is, young man?” he says softly.

“She…she’s on the geriatric ward.” (Sniff.)

Jackson looks up at the big clock on the wall. “Well,” he says, shaking his head, “strictly speaking, we’re outside of visiting hours at the moment. But you know what? Seeing as it’s you, I think we can make an exception. Follow me.”

He goes purposefully through the double doors, and then through another door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, and swipes his security tag on the panel, which beeps and allows us through to a scruffy service corridor that smells of school lunches.

“It’s quite a walk to the ward where your great-grandmother is,” says Jackson. “This is much quicker. Evening, Philomena!” he says to a lady pushing a cleaning cart.

After several turns and one long corridor, we come to another double door and go through it. Before us is a sign saying DEPARTMENT OF GERIATRICS.

“Thank you so much, Jackson,” says Ramzy, all polite. “We’ll be fine now.”

“Fine? No way! I’m going to make sure you get to see your great-grandma. Leave it to me.”

“No, no, really…it’s fine!”

Jackson’s not taking no for an answer and is already talking at the nurses’ station.

“…outside of visiting hours. But they’re very good friends of mine, and I was hoping you’d make an exception.”

A tired-looking young nurse looks at us over the top of his glasses and purses his lips. “Name?” he says.

“I’m Georgina Santos and this is…”

“No. I need the name of the patient you’re visiting,” says the nurse, looking back at his computer screen. Beside us, Jackson is smiling with pride at his success in getting us in.

“Pretorius,” I say.

At the same time, Ramzy says, “Pettarssen.”

The nurse looks up sharply.

“Pettarssen-Pretorius. It’s, erm…hyphenated,” I say.

The nurse is peering back at the computer screen. I can’t see what he’s looking at, but from the expression on his face I can guess what he’s about to say next.

“We don’t have anyone on the ward with tha—”

He is interrupted by a loud American voice. “Yes, you do! It’s a family nickname! Hi, kids—thanks for comin’ to see me!” Dr. Emilia Pretorius is scooting toward us in a wheelchair, dressed in men’s striped pajamas and a dressing gown, her white hair as round as ever. She takes the flowers. “Are those for me? Swell! Put ’em in water for me, would you, Jesmond?”

She places them on the counter in front of the nurse, who starts to say, “I don’t think—”

Whatever it is that he doesn’t think, Dr. Pretorius isn’t interested, and talks to us instead. “Come on, kids, let’s go to the room at the end. Did you bring some of them cookies from your ma? How’s old Philip gettin’ along without me? Did you feed the cat?”

It’s all made up—but it works. Her whirlwind of energy leaves Jesmond the nurse and Jackson standing bewildered as Dr. Pretorius wheels herself off in the direction of the ward’s empty TV lounge. There are about eight other beds in the ward, all occupied by very old people who are either asleep or gaping silently in confused wonder as we pass. Ramzy remembers to turn and smile at Jackson, and then he scuttles to catch up with Dr. Pretorius, who is now mentioning her made-up son-in-law. “What a fine gentleman…”

The second the door to the lounge is closed, Dr. Pretorius switches character.

“What the Sam Hill is going on?” Her cool eyes are blazing with curiosity over her spectacles, which have slipped to the end of her nose. “I figure you kids aren’t stupid, so there must be a good reason, but you’re gonna tell me it now, aren’t you? Who was that security guard?”

“That was Jackson. He’s a friend of my, erm…my dad’s girlfriend. Dr. Pretorius, what’s wrong? Why exactly are you in the hospital?”

“Ah, don’t worry about me.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Minor heart attack. Easily treated these days. But it’s part of what’s gonna take me soon enough anyhow, if I don’t get there first. I told you that. The way things are goin’ we’re all gonna die of Dog Plague anyways. So what brings you here? Can’t bear life without me? Ha!”

And so I tell her, as quickly as I can, that we want to break her out of the hospital, go to the dome, and travel to the future in order to get the cure for Dog Plague and save the world. Even as I say it, it sounds ridiculous and I find myself trailing off and glancing nervously at the door. There’s a long silence.

“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” says Dr. Pretorius, shaking her head solemnly.

Another long pause.

“I love it!”