My eyes are still screwed up against the sharp sunlight.

I open them.

I wake up.

The morning sunshine is slicing through a gap in the curtains, hitting my eyes, and I can make out the shape of the Dreaminator above me. If I screw my eyes shut, I’m not back on a cliff-top with a stone club swinging at me.

I am – I definitely am – awake. I lie there, panting, and bring my hand up to my face. It’s sticky with blood. Everything comes back to me – everything. I don’t know how long I’m lying there. A minute maybe? I turn to Seb’s bed – and he isn’t there. But then I realise, Of course he isn’t there. He’s in hospital.

Is he awake, though?

I hope he’s awake.

I get up. I can’t shake off the idea that I’m still dreaming. Is this another dream-in-a-dream? I check the bathroom: no Kenneth McKinley in the bath. I go to wash the blood off my hands, then check the bathroom door in case a crocodile comes through.

I grab a toothpaste tube and read the words: Extra Freshness! I dash back to my room to check the clock: 06:30.

The words, the numbers, are all clear. I am not dreaming. ‘Float!’ I say. I don’t float.

I am not dreaming. My leg is aching, my arm is crusted with dried blood, but I’m definitely not dreaming.

Something smells odd, though. I look up at the old, original Dreaminator. It is still there, but blackened, smouldering, thin wisps of smoke curling up from the singed feathers, the fine gold threads burned to nothing – a ruin.

I’m relieved in a way. But then I think … what if I have to go back? What if I’ve killed Seb? All the negatives start circling in my head. Without the Dreaminator, what happens if …?

My swirling thoughts are cut off by my phone ringing on the bedside table. The caller ID says it’s Mam.

I hardly dare pick up the phone. I’m in a daze, and later I will find it hard to recall this moment, but for now I put the phone to my ear.

‘Hello?’ I say.

‘He’s back,’ says Mam, and then she starts laughing and crying at the same time. I know how she feels.