I gasp as Moojag leaps back through the porthole, unscathed, carrying a pink frosted muffin topped with purple mini marshmallows. He closes the panel, hauls me up with a single flexed arm, and flies us like a flash of lightning all the way back to the Ward.
“Good morning, Moojag,” chirps Gran. “And… girl.” At least she remembers him this time.
“No breakfast, then?” moans Posh. “The service here is abominable. I demand to see the manager!”
“I love eggs, you know,” pipes up WB2, cute little orange freckles popping over her cheeks. “I hope it’s eggs and cheese!”
“It’s only us, Nema and Moojag,” I say. Their smiles turn upside down. “We couldn’t get the strips. Brix was in the factory.”
“Tips? There won’t be any tips, girl.”
“Who’s Brix, dear?” asks Gran, squinting. “Moojag, is that you there? Bonjour, my sweet Aut-Pof.”
“I love eggs and cheese! I hope it’s eggs and cheese.”
Moojag hovers over to the door and sticks his ear to it.
“28 hours,” a timid, tinny voice calls from outside, making Moojag jump. “Dinner time, ladies.” He pushes against the door while I roll under WB2’s bed and out of sight. He can barely keep it closed. Whoever it is must be just as strong as he is. He releases the door, letting a petite, violet-winged Pof girl stumble into the room carrying three bowls on a tray with one hand. She brushes back the blonde ringlets covering her eyes and peers at Moojag’s waistcoat. He takes out the muffin and passes her half. The little girl pops the whole lot in her mouth as he wipes the pink frosting from his fingers onto the handkerchief hanging from his pocket. It’s Pari Pof, Wendy’s daughter, still wearing her matching purple t-shirt and shorts. She nods and skips forward, placing the tray on a small folding table at the foot of the first bed. “WB1, soup.” She passes a bowl to Gran and moves on to Freckles. “WB2, soup.” And finally, “WB3—”
“SOUP?” Posh is livid. “Is this what ten-star service has come to in 2040 Nairobi? Abominable. I must see the manager.”
Pari turns back and hovers over to Moojag. “I don’t like them.”
“I bet they’re perfectly soft on the inside,” says my brother. “Just need a spoonful of sugar.” Or maybe just a little love.
“They need these,” says Pari, revealing three blue pills cradled in the palm of her cupped hand. She deals them out to the grannies. “Would anyone like a little trot around the room?” she asks.
“Yes, please!” answers WB2, placing her hand on her chest. Pari releases the bed rail, but Freckles shakes her head. She even can’t summon the strength to sit up.
“Come on, WB2,” says Pari, “you can do it!” She places a hand on Freckles’ back to hold her steady, lowers her legs off the bed, and grips her upper arm to help her stand. Freckles’ eyes light up as she manages to take a step forward, and another, but then sways to the side.
“I’m going!” she cries, glancing at Pari hovering beside her. Pari grabs Freckles’ arm as she swings back and flops onto the bed.
“You can walk, Wrinkly Bones Two,” whispers Pari. “One and three, too! I heard Aldon tell his friends.” He has friends? “He just keeps them in bed so he doesn’t have to care.” Pari tugs Moojag’s waistcoat. “I’ve been walking them every day. But Aldon darling told us off and locked them back up in their beds.” Pari’s small eyes widen. “They’ve been lying there for so long, I think maybe their bodies have forgotten how to move!”
Gran always used to say, ‘If you don’t use it, you lose it’.
“She will walk again,” says Moojag. “Takiwatanga—in her own time and space.”
Pari hovers round Moojag and swipes his hat. “If you say so,” she says, plopping it back on his head and saluting him.
As Moojag helps her collect the empty bowls, the door swings open and another Pof enters, carrying a pile of something. “Pee Pants,” calls the winged girl, all dressed in orange. She snatches the other half of the muffin from Moojag’s pocket, stuffs it in her tutu pouch, and links arms with Pari. They skip up to the first bed and shove their hands under the small of Gran’s back. “Ready...” they call out together, “steady… go!” They heave, rolling her onto her side. Pari drags up Gran’s grey nightie and pulls down a sodden, steaming wad of unpurified pee. Orange Pof strings it up and waves it in front of poor Gran’s face, then lobs it onto the floor, a foot too close to my face. “You wouldn’t have to wear a nappy,” she says, wrinkling up her nose, “if you weren’t so really, very lazy.”
Pari shakes her head and nudges Orange Pof. “It’s a lie! They can walk, they’ve just lost all their power.”
“NO,” demands the fierce-faced Pof. “Aldon is right.” She zooms round, yanking the nappies off the other two WBs. “He gave me a giant chocolate orange! That’s all the proof I need.” She picks up three fresh pull-up pants and chucks them at each of the grannies. “Come on, Pari, we can not be late for the Awards. Conqip II will confiscate all my orange jelly beans… and you know how I only really like orange.”
“Okay,” says Pari, skipping round the beds to stroke each of the grannies’ faces. “Moojag, are you coming?” she asks him, turning for the door. “Aldon’s so very cross.”
“Moojag fears not the Marshmallow Chamber,” says my brother, hands on hips. “He is quite fondant of sinking in the squishy, pink gunk.” The Pof girls hover out of the room, flapping their wings at him and slamming the door shut behind them.
“I’m NOT a baby,” calls out Posh, throwing down the pull-up pants. Freckles whimpers, trying to stick her feet through the nappy’s leg holes.
I climb back out from under the bed to help Gran pull on hers. “I love you,” she says, stroking my cheek like I’m a cat. She gazes at me, turns away for a moment, and then looks back. “Are you new? I haven’t seen you in here before.”
I nod, pulling up the nappy. “I’m your granddaughter, Nema.”
She squints at me. “Nema?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a beautiful name… I’m beautiful, too!”
“She would make a splendid partner for my Jasira,” says Posh, fumbling under their covers.
“Maybe Zoe doesn’t like girls,” suggests Freckles, also fidgeting under her blanket as though she’s being tickled.
“I’m Nema.”
“Sorry, dear. Of course you are.”
“Nonsense,” says Gran. “Now, leave Zoe alone. She’s confused enough as it is. And anyway, she’s with my Jack!”
“Isaac’s coming to take me out for luncheon today,” says Posh, jerking their head. “Works for Big Con, now, you know. Very important position. Only the finest—”
“Ten-star cuisine?” adds Gran. “Yes, you may have mentioned it once or twice.”
What’s a ‘luncheon’? Cool word, though, luncheon. Luncheon. Luncheon—
“Luncheon!” exclaims Moojag, turning to me with a grin. I nod, shoulders hunched.
Gran grabs my chest by the e-skin and pulls me in close to whisper in my ear, “I can get you your strips.”
“How?”
She pulls her other shaky hand out from under the blanket and presents three round blue pills, cradled in her sweaty, blue-stained palm.
Posh and Freckles throw down their covers and bolt up, wearing Izzy and Adam’s e-skins! “There’s nothing you can’t do when you have PIE,” calls Freckles, bouncing on the bed and clapping her hands.
If only Izzy and Adam could see this. Their grannies are so much like them. Or are they so much like their grannies?