I need to throw up.

That was Dillon’s first conscious thought.

He tried to vomit. Nothing came out.

His eyes were closed. He had no real idea of where he was or what was happening. All he knew was that his stomach was churning.

He retched and a thin trickle of foul-tasting bile escaped, dribbling down his cheek. Someone wiped it away.

He felt hands on his shoulders, leaning him to the side, and something cold and metallic pressed to his cheek.

He retched again. A little more liquid came out.

Dillon was aware of movement and voices around him, but he couldn’t open his eyes. He was too tired.

His stomach settled a bit and everything went away.

Until he needed to throw up again.

And again.

And again.

Somewhere, amidst all the spewing, he began to get a sense of where he was and what was going on.

I’m in hospital, aren’t I?

I had an operation, didn’t I?

I’ve got a new liver … I hope!

He finally opened his eyes. Mum and Dad were there, just like they said they would be. He smiled.

People came and went. Mum and Dad stayed.

He caught a fleeting glimpse of bright green.

Dillon floated in and out of awareness. The only thing he was certain of was that he was thirsty. Scratchy throat, bone-dry mouth, parched thirstiness.

People spoke. He wasn’t sure who was talking to whom. To him? To Mum and Dad? To each other?

‘Welcome back,’ said Mum.

‘You’re doing well, champ,’ said Dad.

‘Nausea is quite a common reaction to anaesthetic,’ said a nurse.

‘It was a textbook operation,’ said Doc J.

‘I’ve got flowers here,’ said someone.

‘I’ll get water,’ said someone else. ‘He’s doing well.’

‘Nil by mouth for the first twelve hours.’

‘It’s already after nine pm.’

‘It will take some time for the anaesthetic to wear off completely.’

‘He’ll probably drift in and out of sleep.’

‘You don’t have to stay here all night.’

‘You should get some rest, too.’

‘We’d rather wait.’

Dillon heard a mobile ringing. ‘Is that my phone?’ he whispered.

And then he fell asleep.