The crocuses are poking their heads out of the earth in front of the hospital. I can see the brightly coloured dots in among the brown from my window on the third floor. The doctor adds his squiggle to the bottom of my discharge papers. Satisfied, he puts his hands into his white coat. He says something about a miracle, he congratulates me and my mother, gives her the suitcase and me his hand. I secretly cross my fingers behind my back. My mother thanks the doctor; he praises her patience, recommends a holiday. My mother says the flight is already booked. We’re off tomorrow. Surprise! She smiles at me. My gaze is rigid. We’re catching a plane to an island, she says. We’ll do whatever you want. My gaze drifts towards the window. My mother assures me I’ll like it. The hotel has four stars. We walk through the hospital corridors. My soles slap against the PVC. The other patients shuffle along the corridor in their dressing gowns and tracksuit trousers. Some are pulling their drip or an oxygen cylinder behind them. They don’t look up. I ask for a piece of cake from the shop, but my mother steers me out of the door. She doesn’t want to stay in the hospital any longer than necessary. We need to pack. Panic starts to rise in me.

For the first time in months, I’m lying in my own bed. I walk my feet up the wall. Higher and higher until I can flip over backwards. There’s no one there for my well-earned applause. Next door, I can hear my mother’s clothes hangers squeaking. She is looking for her linen trousers for the holiday. Once it’s dark, I creep out of the house. The door falls into the lock with a click. The street is damp. The tarmac is steaming. Petrol shimmers in rainbow colours on a puddle.