It’s past midnight when Dad and I leave the hospital. The doctor wouldn’t let me on the ward again just in case I have a sickness bug. But I think we all knew the real reason: seeing Theo wasn’t exciting or lovely. It was like being kicked in the stomach. So all this time I’ve had to wait in the Relatives’ Room with its pink chairs and pictures of waterlilies, which I suppose are meant to be soothing. And now Dad has agreed to drive me back to Nell’s and I don’t have any choice in that either.

He’s got a new car; it’s silver and much bigger than ours. Once we’ve got in, he turns the heater on high and puts a carrier bag of food into my lap. I don’t touch it, though my stomach’s growling.

‘You need to eat,’ Dad says. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’

‘I’m fine.’ I don’t want him to be right about something else.

Now we’re by ourselves, I realise just how angry I am. It took Dad five days to get to the hospital. FIVE WHOLE DAYS. What the heck’s he been doing in that time, other than ignoring Theo?

Though I’m dying to ask, I dread the excuses he’ll come up with. So I stare at the wet wipes and baby snacks on the dashboard – and that’s hard too. He’s someone else’s dad now, not just Theo’s and mine.

As the car warms up, I grow tired. But when I shut my eyes I see Theo in his hospital bed, and the fear on Mum’s face. It makes me feel ill again. It’s better to stay awake, though once we join the motorway there’s nothing much to look at any more.

‘Pass me a sandwich, would you?’ says Dad.

My stomach does another growl. I’ve got that queasy sort of hunger. I really should eat. Inside the carrier bag there are egg sandwiches, ham and turkey, cheese and salad, and two big bags of crisps. Dad’s bought orange juice and flapjacks, and a couple of red apples. Being at Nell’s, I’ve forgotten what real food looks like.

But then, Dad can cook. Did cook. He’d do a roast every Sunday, make fruit pies with proper pastry and serve them with made-from-scratch custard. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water. It’s shocking to think Nell’s his mother. Last time we ate with him it was different, though. We had burgers in a service station somewhere and Theo was too unwell to eat. That was when he told us his girlfriend Lara was having a baby.

‘Here.’ I pass Dad the turkey sandwich, which looks dry and boring.

He takes it and forces down a mouthful. ‘Today’s been tough, hasn’t it?’

‘It’s been all right,’ I say. I’m not about to bare my soul if that’s what he’s hoping. I keep eating my own sandwich.

‘You knew Theo was this sick, didn’t you? Mum’s kept you in the picture?’

I nod.

‘The whole picture, I mean. The risks, not just the positives.’

I glance at him sideways.

‘The thing is, Alice, your mum’s pinning all her hopes on this operation, which is typical of her …’ He falters. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like I’m the worst person in the world.’

I don’t answer.

‘All I’m trying to say’, says Dad, ‘is that your mother can be quite … optimistic. She doesn’t always see the dangers in things.’

I stare out of the window. Part of me knows what he means. She’s what Lexie’s mum calls a ‘glass half full’ person. But she wasn’t when Dad first left, and she wasn’t today, and it scares me. If Mum can’t see the bright side, then maybe that’s because there is no bright side to see.

‘Alice, transplants are risky. Sometimes, people get their hopes up – they’ve tried all the other options and this is the last resort and then …’ He stops.

‘What?’

He rubs his eye though I don’t think he’s crying. ‘It’s a very big deal for everyone, an operation like this. I just hope it’s going to make Theo better.’

I scowl at my reflection in the glass. ‘Don’t you believe in transplants, then? You think we should’ve just let Theo get worse?’

‘Of course not! The doctors are getting better at transplants all the time, but there’s always the risk that a person’s body will reject the donor organ.’

‘They give him tablets to stop that, don’t they?’

‘Yes, but those tablets aren’t without risk either. They make it very hard for him to fight infections.’

‘I know, but …’

‘I just want you to be prepared, that’s all.’

I wish Dad would shut up.

‘Seeing Theo shocked you, didn’t it?’ he says. ‘You didn’t expect him to be so sick.’

My eyes start to water. That feeling I got in Theo’s hospital room, of being hot and trapped, is coming back.

‘I wanted to see him,’ I say. ‘I promised.’

‘Though I don’t suppose he even knew we were there.’

‘How can you say that? Of course he knew I was there!’

Even so, I see flashes of Theo lying flat in his bed, his eyelids shut, his hand a bit too still.

‘Oh just shut up, will you?’ I slump down in my seat.

We don’t speak for a bit, then I turn to face Dad. He still looks awful – white-cheeked and shadow-eyed, and he’s barely touched his sandwich. His hands are trembling on the steering wheel.

‘Dad?’ I say.

‘Ummm?’

‘I’m scared,’ I say. ‘So’s Mum, and I bet Theo isn’t exactly thrilled. But don’t shut us out, Dad. Don’t pretend it’s not happening.’

Dad’s jaw clenches up. It makes him look like Nell. ‘I’m worried too, of course I am. But I’m not pretending anything.’

‘So why didn’t you go to the hospital straight away? Why did it take you …’

He stops me with his hand. ‘Enough, Alice, all right? I’ve got Lara and Poppy to think of as well. I can’t just leave everything at the drop of a hat.’

I turn away. So that’s what this is to him. His son’s just had a transplant and he calls it ‘the drop of a hat’.

My heart is pounding really hard. I need to calm down.

‘It was a shock today,’ says Dad, finally.

‘Yes, I say, staring out of the window though all I see is dark glass. ‘It was.’

That’s something we agree on, at least.