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again. Nothing like Amy was: she wouldn’t stop giggling and talking from the first day she came through the door, would she?’
‘Still won’t,’ he says, and laughs.
‘She is a different girl, all right. A bit odd if you ask me; those great green eyes just stare and stare.’
‘Oh, she is quite sweet. Give her a chance to get settled.’
‘It is her last chance, isn’t it.’
‘Hush.’
And a door shuts downstairs and I hear no more. Just a faint murmur.
I hadn’t wanted to leave the hospital. Not that I wanted to stay there forever, but within those walls, I knew where I was. How I fit, what was expected.
Here all is unknown.
But it isn’t as scary as I thought. Already I can see Amy is lovely. Dad seems all right. I’m guessing Sebastian will be better than chocolate to pull me back from the edge if I get low. And the food is much better. My first Sunday roast dinner. We do this every week, Amy said.
Dinner and, not a shower, but a bath – a whole hot tub to soak in – had me at nearly 7 by bedtime.
Mum thinks I am odd. I must remember not to stare at her so much.
Sleep settles around me and her words drift through my brain.
Last chance…
Have I had other chances?
Last chance…

I run.
Waves claw at the sand under my feet as I force one foot to pound after the other, again and again. Ragged breath sucked in and out until my lungs might burst, and still I run. Golden sand gives way under my feet and stretches on and on as far as my eyes can see, and still I scrabble up and slip down and run.
Terror snaps at my heels.
It’s getting closer.
I could turn and face it, see what it is.
I run.

‘Ssssh, I’ve got you.’
I struggle then realise it is Amy whose arms are around me.
The door opens and light streams in from the hall.
‘What is going on?’ Mum says.
Amy answers. ‘Just a bad dream, but you’re all right, now. Aren’t you, Kyla?’
My heart rate is slowing; vision, clearing. I push her away.
‘Yes. I’m fine.’
I say the words, but part of me is still running.

CHAPTER FOUR
     
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I drift through trees, spin and sprawl down on grass and daisies on the ground, alone. I stare at clouds drifting across the sky, making half known shapes and faces. Names slip away if I grasp at them, so I let them wash past: just lie still and be me .
It is time. Like mist I bleed away until I am gone. Trees and sky are replaced by the darkness of closed eyelids, tickling grass by solid bed.
Quiet. Why is it so quiet? My body knows it is later than 5 am but no buzzer has sounded, no breakfast trolleys clang up and down the hall.
I lie very still, hold my breath, and listen.
Gentle, even breathing. Close by. Did I black out last night, is there a Watcher in my room? If so, it sounds like they sleep rather than watch.
There are faint cheerful sounds in the other direction, a distant rise and fall, like music. Birds?
Something warm by my feet.
I’m not in my room at hospital. My eyes snap open as I remember.
Not a Watcher at all across the room: Amy, sound asleep and breathing deeply, like Sebastian at my feet. She is a new sort of the same thing, maybe.
I slip quiet to the window, pull the curtain.
Dawn.
Red streaks cross the sky, pockets of pink in wisps of cloud, like corrugated twists of metal, light shining through on grass and wet leaves, in wild splashes of colour. Orange, gold, red and all in between.
Beautiful.
My hospital window faced west. Sunsets I’ve seen, mostly blocked by buildings, true, but never a sunrise.
The birds have friends, and the faint song from earlier becomes more as they join in. I push the window open wide, lean out and breathe . The air is fresh, no metallic or disinfectant smells. Damp greenness, of garden below and fields beyond that shimmer in the early light.
And somehow, I know. The city was never mine. I was – am – a country girl. Sure of it like breathing, certain this is a place that is more like home to me.
Not like home, it is home: yesterday, today, how many more