I set the alarm on my phone for five-thirty the next morning and, when it goes off, I make myself start coughing. I cough approximately every thirty seconds, and soon enough my throat’s actually sore and my voice is hoarse.

Mom comes in to check after an hour. It’s obvious I’m too sick to go to school.

I can’t cough every weekday for the rest of my life, though. I don’t know what I’m going to do tomorrow, and Friday and next term. Mom emails school to say I won’t be in, and Mr Browning calls not long after nine to talk to her. From my room I can hear her explaining the cough, and it’s only later that she tells me who it was.

I let myself ‘get better’ as the morning goes on and I decide that if there’s no way out of going tomorrow I may as well put in some work on my Cape Town presentation.

There are so many ways to tell it. History is not just history, not just dates and facts. As I look through the old paintings online, I wonder if we could have done better there, or done better sooner. Could Cape Town have worked for everyone?