I come round in the ambulance. Dad is next to me, gripping my hand so hard that it almost hurts.
“Hi, my lovely,” he says, and smiles with his mouth, but not his eyes, which are still wet.
There’s a mask over my mouth that I pull aside to see if I can talk.
“How long have I been here? What time is it? Why am I here?”
“You passed out about ten minutes ago. The ambulance was pretty quick. We’ll be arriving soon. Clem’s riding up front. Jessica is meeting us there.”
Jessica doesn’t have far to go: the department where she works is part of the hospital.
One of the paramedics in the ambulance gently replaces the oxygen mask and says, “Shhh. We’ll get you figured out.”
What happens next is a bit of a blur. There are doctors, nurses, blood tests, injections, a brain scan. Then ultrasound imaging, and Dad crying when he thinks I’m sleeping. Then, after a few hours, I’m sitting up in the hospital bed.
The headache has gone, to be replaced by a dull tingling, and even that seems to be diminishing.
Jessica and Dad are sitting at the side of my bed. A lady in a short white coat comes in. She is so soft-spoken that at times I strain to hear her, but she’s just doing it to be nice. She has a tablet computer, and she wants some answers.
She introduces herself as Mimi. Her lapel badge says Dr. Mimi Chevapravat. She sits down next to me, opposite Jessica and Dad.
“Hi, Georgie,” she says, and smiles warmly. “I’m the neurosurgical resident, and I’ve been looking at the tests we’ve done, and I’m glad to say that there seems to be no damage to your brain. We’re not quite sure what happened, but we think it’s a case of juvenile migraine. You should make a full recovery.”
Well, that’s good news. The only problem is the what happened bit. I’m struggling to remember myself.
“But,” she continues, “I need to ask you some questions about your activities prior to the incident. This condition can often be triggered by bright lights, that sort of thing. Can you think of anything that might have set it off?”
I glance across at Dad. He looks so tired, and so worried, and I suddenly feel a wave of guilt wash over me.
Was this all my fault?
Inside my head is a mixture of everything: the Spanish City, a piece of peach, Dr. Pretorius, then Norman Two-Kids, and the vicar, and a bicycle helmet, and a box of oranges, and ugly Dudley the Staffie…
And none of it makes sense. It’s as though all the pages of a book have been torn out and put back in the wrong order.
Didn’t I? Didn’t I what? Who said that?
“Georgie? Did you hear me?” It’s Mimi again.
I don’t know why, but I decide to just tell the truth. Maybe it’s because I’m too tired to make anything up. Or maybe the secret’s too big for me now. I mean, I’m just a kid.
I start slowly at first: meeting Dr. Pretorius on the beach that day; her invitation to see her studio; the dome inside the Spanish City with its vast floor with billions of ball bearings; the beach with the deck chair and the sand that felt real—I can remember that all right.
It begins to sound ridiculous as I say it. I catch glances between Jessica and Dad. I mean, I know it’s all true—I saw it, I experienced it—although, when I try to remember bits, they sometimes dance away from me, like trying to catch clouds.
“This…Dr. Pretorius?” says Dad eventually. “Where does she live?”
I don’t know. Did I ever know? Did I see her house? Does she live in the dome, in that little room I saw? Was that yesterday? I feel stupid and guilty and want to say sorry over and over.
“So a woman you have never met before, and you know nothing about, invites you and Ramzy Rahman to her, what…laboratory? In the Spanish City? And tells you to keep it secret? And you do?” Dad’s voice is getting louder, and Jessica touches his arm: a sort of “calm down” gesture, which is nice of her, I guess.
The thing is, the more this interrogation goes on, the more I can see he has a point. A good one.
I’m not making much sense. What were we thinking?
There’s more. I mention the Hawking II satellite and, most importantly, the bicycle helmet with its tiny electrical nodules inside and…
“Slow down, Georgie,” says Mimi, putting her hand on my arm. “I’m interested in this…helmet?”
“A bicycle helmet, yes. A changed one,” and I describe it in more detail.
“Modified, obviously,” she says, shooting a glance at Dad, then addressing him rather than me. “This sounds like a sort of homemade TDCS.”
“What’s that?” says Dad, speaking for all of us, I think.
“Transcranial direct-current stimulation. It was popular with gamers a few years ago. Enhancing the gaming experience and so on. The early versions were pretty harmless: very low-level stimulation. There was one released for use in theme parks—the surround-something-or-other.”
“The Surround-a-Room!” I exclaim. “I know! Dr. Pretorius invented it.”
Mimi looks at me. “Is that what she told you, this, ah…this…Dr. Pretorius?” She doesn’t exactly make finger quotes round “Dr. Pretorius” but her voice does.
I note the beginning of an uncomfortable feeling. Was Dr. Pretorius lying about that?
Mimi continues. “So, Georgie. You were saying that…erm”—she glances at her notes—“a satellite dish receiving a stream of ultra-high-definition live video signals from…?”
“Hawking II. It’s a military satellite.” Even as I say it, it sounds ridiculous.
“Yessss,” she drawls, and sucks the end of her pen. “And what happened next?”
“I…I can’t remember. She has a…a quomp—a quantum computer called Little Girl—that calculates the probability of, like, everything, and creates a virtual model of what will happen. It’s sort of a three-dimensional version of the future. I think.” I pause to judge their reactions. Dad’s brow is creased in puzzlement. I become more keen to tell them, but the harder I try to rearrange the scattered memories, the less sense I make. I want them to believe me, but I’m not even sure I believe myself.
“It’s true!” I wail eventually. “I was there! The electronic calendar in the window of Norman Two-Kids’s shop said the date a week from now.”
As I say it, I realize it’s no proof at all. In fact, it’s probably the easiest thing in the world to fake a date on a virtual calendar.
The whole thing is crazy. Military satellites, ultra-high-definition video streams, quomps, and AI scorpions, and yet…
“Wait!” I say. “Look.” I flip the bedsheet to one side. “This is where the giant scorpion got me!” I point to my leg, and there is a wound there. A little one. A tiny needle-prick that could be anything. There isn’t even any blood, just a red dot.
Mimi hardly glances at it. “Hmph.”
I had believed it all. I feel my chin wobbling but I stop it. Mimi gets up and clips her pen back into her pocket.
“Mr. and Mrs. Santos? May I have a word with you? In private?”
Jessica stands up. I want to say, She’s not Mrs. Santos. She’s not my mum, you know, but I don’t have the energy. Mimi gives me a tight little smile and the three of them leave me there, wondering whether I’ve been the biggest fool ever.