Dillon watched the street lights go by, glowing points in the darkness. His eyes went from one to the next, like a gigantic dot-to-dot illuminating the night.

He imagined the patterns and pictures they might form when viewed from above. Instantly, it transported him six weeks back in time, to his first flight aboard an RFDS plane. There was no faster way to get to Melbourne for a transplant, than with the Royal Flying Doctor Service.

Like this time, the call had come in the evening, although not as late. Do all transplants happen then? he wondered. Dillon had been whisked away into the car by his parents, taken to the airport and flown to Melbourne. He had always assumed that the Flying Doctors only ever dealt with emergencies in far-off, out-of-the-way places. But it seemed that they also did short-notice, middle-of-the-night transfers in city locations.

He remembered looking out of the window as the plane rose higher – watching the lights grow more distant. They did make patterns. The higher the plane went, the more intricate the patterns became. And he could see pictures in the lights – faces, animals, machinery. His imagination ran wild until the landscape changed, leaving behind the illumination.

His mind returned to the present with a sudden lurch.

The car was pulling over, making an odd thumping sound.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Dillon.

‘Just a flat tyre,’ said Dad with an exasperated sigh. ‘Talk about rotten timing.’

‘What are we going to do?’ demanded Mum, voice rising.

‘Change the tyre,’ said Dad, deadpan, opening his door.

The three of them got out of the car and stood back. The tyre on the front passenger side was indeed flat. On closer examination, Dad found a nail embedded in the rubber.

‘We’re going to be late,’ worried Mum, running her hands through her hair.

Dillon’s heart jumped. Late? We can’t be late! Every step of the way, it had been drummed into them how essential speed was in the case of an organ transplant.

‘It’s going to be okay,’ said Dad. ‘I’m good with tyres. I’ll have it replaced within ten minutes.’

‘That’s still ten minutes late,’ said Mum, pacing anxiously on the footpath. ‘You know how important it is to get Dillon to the hospital immediately.’ She stopped, an idea springing into mind. ‘Maybe Dillon and I should take a taxi?’

Dad was already getting the spare and the jack out of the boot. ‘In the time it takes you to ring and wait for a taxi, we’ll be ready to go. But go ahead, if you like.’ He winked at Dillon. ‘We can make it a race. See if I can get us going before the taxi arrives.’

Dillon laughed. Mum’s attention snapped to him, her face tense. But then she relaxed and nodded. ‘Okay. How about I ring and let the RFDS know what’s happened?’

‘Excellent idea,’ said Dad as he started jacking up the car.

Mum walked off behind them. Making that call would keep her busy and out of Dad’s way. It would also help her stay calm.

‘Need a hand?’ asked Dillon, eager to participate.

‘No, no,’ assured Dad, getting to work on loosening the wheel nuts. ‘I’ve got this.’

Dillon sighed. Whenever Dad refused assistance, it made Dillon wonder: Is it because I’m defective?

Was Dad trying to protect him? Or didn’t he think he was capable? Or was it just coincidence?

Whatever the case, it made Dillon feel left out. Excluded from the details of his own adventure.

With nothing else to do, Dillon worried. He worried about getting the transplant, about not getting the transplant, about the possibility of another incompatible liver. But mostly, he worried about being late.

What if this delay stuffs up everything?

Being quick was important when it came to transplanting organs. A liver would only be viable for transplant for a certain amount of time after the donor had died … although he wasn’t really sure how long that was. No one had actually told him that. But he thought that it was different from case to case, depending on the circumstances of death. Either way, he didn’t want to miss his opportunity because of a stupid flat tyre.

Mum finished her call and walked back to the car to see that it was fixed.

‘And that would be a new family record,’ said Dad, heaving the replaced wheel into the boot and tossing the jack in after it.

‘Fastest tyre-changer in the West,’ quipped Mum. Now that everything was okay again, she seemed more ready to joke about it.

‘Maybe we should apply to the Guinness World Records?’ suggested Dad.

‘Or maybe we should just get going?’ said Mum. ‘Come on.’

They all got back into the car. Dad paused like he had earlier, holding the key in the ignition.

‘Ready?’ he asked, after taking a long, deep breath.

‘Oh, would you just get moving!’ demanded Mum.

‘Right-oh, then.’ Dad turned the key and the engine started. ‘Fingers crossed for smooth sailing from here on in.’

Sailing? thought Dillon. We’re in a car, not a boat. He often considered Dad’s choice of analogy to be a bit weird.

The car took off, zooming up the deserted road.

‘Well, that was a bit of an adventure,’ said Dad.

‘Let’s hope there aren’t any more,’ countered Mum.

A flat tyre is nothing, thought Dillon. The transplant is going to be the real adventure.