I wake up in an unfamiliar bed, the sickeningly strong smell I associate with disinfectant all around me. Something is different; something is wrong. I can’t breath.

Loud bleeping fills my head as my hand travels upwards of it’s own accord, reaching my chest and the foreign object resting there. A tube; disappearing under my skin. This isn’t normal. This isn’t right.

I tug on it but nothing happens and somewhere in my hazy-mind I realise that I must still be pretty drugged up from the aesthetic. I tug again: I don’t like it. It shouldn’t be there; it doesn’t belong in my body.  

Another tug, and this time, I can feel a slight burn rising inside me, like I’m going to be sick. I try with shaking hands to rip off the bandage that covers half of my neck, down to my right breast. At some point I must scream in frustration because the next thing I know warm hands are closed around mine, pushing me back into the lumpy bed. I struggle and kick furiously; barely registering the concerned faces staring down at me, making me feel like an animal in a zoo. The person I’m fighting is stronger than me. He smells like lavender shampoo, coffee and home.

“Calm down,” he’s whispering. “Riley, Ri, come back to me, come on, please.”

I manage to focus on him long enough to see the tears in his eyes: more than enough to set me off. Because my brother never cries. I don’t care about the stereotypes that people have about guys like Jamie being soft or ‘in touch with their emotions’ – yeah, he’s probably one of the most thoughtful guys I’ve ever known, but I’ve never, ever seen him cry. And I know then. I know exactly how serious this is, how scared they all are for me.

I’m scared too.

I’m Riley Connell. I’m 15 years old and yesterday I was diagnosed with Leukaemia. Let me tell you how I got here.

            It started as something you wouldn’t really notice, until the detention slips began to pile up. Falling asleep in class, in turns out, is frowned upon. My form teacher wasn’t happy about that; she called a meeting with me and went through all the usual crap that teachers do when they pretend to be concerned for a student: ‘is everything alright at home?’ ‘Are you having trouble with friends?’ ‘Does it have something to do with a boy, perhaps?’ ‘Is there a reason you think you’re not sleeping properly?’ The thing was, I’d been sleeping just fine. I’d been sleeping every chance I got; yet still I felt woozy from just the short walk to school. At first, my mum assured me that it was normal; that when you got to a certain age, it was much easier to sleep until noon and not want to get up. She put it down to my being a teenager. It was only when a bruise formed within minutes of me banging my wrist against a shelf that she decided to take me to the doctors, her biggest concern that I might be anaemic.

            I’d always considered my doctor a sweet sort: a bit old, but competent enough. When mum and me went to see him that first time, he assured us that there was nothing wrong and that I would be back to normal in a few days at most. Two weeks later, when I was showering, I noticed small purplish spots on my skin, scattered over my arms, legs and stomach. I prodded a finger at them and didn’t feel any pain, so didn’t mention it for another few days, until Jamie spotted them after I’d fallen asleep with my head draped over his shoulder. Then we were back at the doctors again. He was sending us away again: it seemed like a continuous cycle.

Two appointments later and my mum were at her wits end. I was still falling asleep multiple times a day and bruising at the touch of a fingertip. She demanded a blood test.

            Have you ever gotten a phone call and you just know, without answering it, that it’s going to be bad news? Not the kind you get in the middle of the night. That’s obvious: either someone is dead or someone is drunk enough to be calling you at 3am. This call came a couple of hours after my blood test. The same blood test we’d been told they wouldn’t know the results of for at least a week.

That night, four weeks after I’d initially gone to the doctors, I was in hospital with a drip attached to my ankle. It’d been fed into my vein using a green catheter that the nurses had oh so helpfully pointed out looked like a butterfly. Like I’m a child. Like I need to be told the sharp piece of steel about to pierce my skin looks like a harmless garden insect. Like that makes it better.

In the morning, I was transferred to a special children’s hospital: this hospital, where I wasn’t allowed to eat all day, before I was taken to surgery to get this blasted thing shoved into my heart. No one’s really explained properly – something about white blood cells and bone marrow and I don’t even know what bone marrow is. I’m thinking something that is in your bones, although I always thought bones were made entirely of, well, bone. Not marrow.

            It’s probably not the best idea to try and rip the thing out. Jamie seems to realise I know this after my brief lapse of judgement because he loosens his grip on me, but doesn’t let go. I lean my head against his chest because I don’t know what else to do and soon he wrap his arms around me, rocking me gently in a way he hasn’t done for years. Not since our dad left. I fleeting wonder if dad knows about any of this, but shake myself before the disgust rising in me can really take hold.

“You going to let the nurse check you over now?” Jamie asks gently and I nod against him, reluctant to let go.

The women who walks determinedly over to me is dressed in a light pink uniform. She has a kind face really, though her hair is tied back so tightly that some of her features appear a little taut. She talks me through everything she’s going to do, even the simple things like taking my temperature, which relaxes me more than I thought possible in the middle of a ward, where machines are still beeping furiously and kids are crying at fairly regular intervals, as though they have a little rota going.

Jamie is still by my side, holding one of my hands as if he’s afraid I’m going to vanish. I make a note to give him a good slap when the nurse is gone. 

Then I catch my mothers’ eye from where she’s perched at the bottom of the bed, stiff as anything. Her eyes are rimmed red but dark underneath from lack of sleep and she looks as though she could crumble at any minute. I feel a surge of regret pulsing through me for putting her through this. As if she needs more trouble, after everything she’s been through while still managing to raise two kids to be relatively decent human beings. Sometimes I think my mum deserves a medal. Sometimes I want to shake her and tell her to get it together. This is one of those times.

“All done,” the nurse says with cheer that is suddenly repulsive. “My name’s Ally by the way. I’ll be back in a couple of hours with some pills for you, but if you need anything before that just press the buzzer by the bed, okay?”

I nod and watch her retreat across the ward, probably with twenty other patients to deal with, probably with some much more sick than me. To her, I’m just another face of another kid who got ill: someone to pity.

I don’t care then that I’m being unfair. I don’t even care if I’m making it all up in my head, about her not caring about me. I decide I hate her. Walking around with a smile on her face as though we’re all going to be fine. It’s not true. And who’s she to give us that hope? Who’s she to go around to kids of five and six and grin at them as though they were in a playroom of a holiday club, not on the ward of a hospital, where someone could be dying on the other side of a wall. Where people die every day.

Heat rushes to my face and I suddenly feel light headed. The noises of the ward distort and blur in my head, getting louder and louder until I have to shove my hands over my ears in an attempt to stifle them.

Bile rises in my throat, and a cardboard bowl is only just pushed under my face in time before I’m throwing up. I collapse back onto the bed then, exhaustion and the left over chemicals in my system taking over me. My eyes close of their own accord and somewhere in the back of my mind I register the possibility that I might be dreaming. Even then I know it’s wishful thinking. I know that when I wake up, it’s going to be to harsh glare of the hospital lights. I know it, but I still hope it’s not true.  

Alice.

From reading

And breathing

And sitting around

I stumbled upon

A hole in the ground

Inside I fell

Without a sound

Much more fun

Than sitting around

I landed upon

A patterned floor

Surrounded by a mass of doors

Upon a table

You won’t guess what I found!

The smallest key

And a liquid, I frowned

Was it poison?

Could it be?

With its label entitled ‘Drink Me.’

I drank it anyway

It wasn’t often I found

A dangerous liquid underground

As I began to shrink

Slowly to the ground

All I could think was

This was much more fun

Than reading

And breathing

And sitting around.

-Rebby

First Impressions

Scene One
A busy hospital corridor, Lily Crozzgrove is sat alone reading a book

Eliza: (Flumps down next to her and sighs) Hi!

Lily: (Looks up from her book, startled) Hello

Eliza: Hospitals are weird, aren't they? So many people... Can't find a Doctor to give me a hand!

Lily: I could call for a Doctor, if you like?

Eliza: (Snorts with laughter) It's alright, I don't mind waiting (awkward pause) So... What cha reading?

Lily: Oh, erm... Nothing really. You're going to wait here?

Eliza: Oh yeah! Don't worry (holds up her green scaley hand) This happened last time, they gave me these tablets, then I was right as rain! (Pauses) Why are you here?

Lily: (Grins a bit) Last time? What on earth did you do?!

Eliza: It was originally a new type of cat food for my cat, but Eurekaa started breathing funny again so I gave her some milk, the milk went in the solution, then BOOM! Lizard hand!

Lily: (Stares) Are you on meds?

Eliza: (Sighs) not anymore, well, not since a new nose started growing, but I won't bore you with my scars!

Lily: Maybe I should call a Nurse

Eliza: Don't bother (pause) This is so boring... I'm going home (gets up to leave)

Lily: Wait! Just... Don't. I've kind of been here for... Well, ages! You're crazy, but just... Don't go yet

Eliza: (Flumping down back next to her) But it's so boring! (Puase) Want to come with?

Lily: (Considering it) I can't just leave! The nurses will...

Eliza: Come on! Just for an hour or two, I swear I've got tablets at home for this hand anyway (pause) It'll be better than staying here

Lily: ... But... But they'll notice! I really shouldn't

Eliza: An hour, that's it. I'll show you my cat, she likes people

Lily: (Sighs) Oh what the hell! (Gets up and joins her)

Eliza: Brill! (Linking arms with her almost skipping down the corridor) Wait till you meet Eureka's kittens, they keep on glowing, it's great!

Lily: ... Did I mention you're crazy? I'm Lily by the way

Eliza: I'm Eliza. Crazy's better than boring, come on!

Milo Jackerby (The thrid bit, this is a long one, sorry!)

(I've read comments and stuff and, hopefully, you'll end stand that this bit here introduces the main character on the novel/story/thing - enjoy. D x)

17^th December, 5999

            “Push!” Connor urged as his wife, Eve, lay panting on the bedroom floor. She grunted, screamed and swore before gripping hold of her husbands hand,

            “Connor, you did this!” she yelled, Connor laughed,

            “Yes I did, you’re almost there,” he grinned, “Come on Evie, he’s almost there, push!” the room erupted into yelling, laughing and, quite suddenly, crying. There was a split moment of silence before Evie sighed in great relief, panting as her husband slowly bent forwards to the ground, scooping up a bloody baby. The next few minutes were chaos. Connor’s hands were shaking as he dabbed carefully at the crying bundle in his arms, his eyes watering,

            “It’s alright,” he whispered, his voice breaking, “It’s alright,” the baby cried loudly, he chuckled, “Good, healthy lungs,” he heard Evie laugh weakly behind him. She was exhausted. She wanted to clean herself and go to her husband and her new baby. Her son. But all she wanted was to sleep. Sleep and hold her son.

            “Let me hold him,” she then said, her arms weakly outstretched, Connor nodded before handing her their son, wrapped in a faded flannel material. His mouth was wide open in fear and fury, bawling out a troublesome cry that would wake half the city,

            “Oh,” Evie said, holding and rocking her son, “No, no, don’t cry, don’t cry, it’s alright,” Connor scooted next to her and put his arm around her, his watery eyes looking down to his son,

            “He has your eyes,” Connor whispered, so not to frighten his son. He was right. Their son’s eyes were a deep chestnut brown, they were both silently thankful as, babies these days, often took after their Father and, in the baby’s case, he would be taking Connor’s cat like green eyes.

He felt Evie move closer to him, smiling,

            “He has your voice,” she teased tiredly, offering up her son to him, “Hold him.” Gingerly, Connor eased his hands around the bundle of flannel material, hopefully supporting the boy in the correct places,

            “Hello,” he cooed, the baby simply cried back at him, “Please don’t cry,” the baby cried back, “Please? Come on, listen to your Dad,” the baby stopped for a heartbeat, gurgled, holding out his left hand, before crying again.

            “Have you thought of any names?” he asked, “I know we were thinking of girls names before the third scan but…” he trailed off as the baby’s hand locked hold of one of Connor’s stray fingers. In that second of silence, if the city listened, they could have heard a pin drop.

            “After our Dad’s… Maybe,” Evie replied, tiredly, smiling at her son and husband,

            “My Dad was called Benedict,” Connor snorted gently, his eyes wide and staring at the small baby, “Can you imagine the names he’d be called,” Evie nodded,

            “What about my Dad?” she asked,

            “Milo?” Connor questioned, looking back at the baby before saying, “Milo, does that sound alright to you?” the baby fell silent before yawning and lulling into a quiet sleep, Connor smiled and handed him to Evie, “Sounds good to me.”

            The next hour was filled with the beauty of nothingness. Silence filled the air and, when listened carefully, the only sound to be heard was light breathing from the three occupants. Evie’s dark hair was greasy with stress and pain and Connor’s brow was stained with sweat and creases with worry. Milo, little Milo, was wrinkled and purple and pink and blue and new born. He was so many things to them, this small baby, meant so much that, for this one hour, he only deserved silence. Silence to take it all in.

            Evie broke the silence.

            “I can’t believe we got away,” Connor groaned slightly before nodding slightly,

            “They’ll be here soon,” there was a pause where Milo shuffled in his ragged blanket,

            “We can’t stay here,” she whispered, looking down at Milo, “They’ll take him, any children of the… Of our kind are…” her voice broke, “We… We need to go,”

            “I know,” Connor said simply, holding his wife as she slowly began to cry, her tears falling on her son,

            “We can’t…” she tried to say, “He has to… We can’t keep him but… But…” as she began to cry Milo awoke and cried with her. Connor tried to stay brave for them.

            “Evie,” he said hoarsely, “We have to send him away,” she shook her head,

            “No, no, Connor,” he tried to reach for the baby, “Connor, no, don’t take him away,” she was almost screaming, “Connor; don’t take him away from me!” Milo wailed as Evie scrambled back away from her husband. Connor made a failing attempt at grabbing for her before tears slowly rolled down his face,

            “He will die here,” Connor then croaked. Milo continued to wail as Evie took in what he just said. A look of horror and pain struck her face violently, her chestnut eyes clouding over with thoughts and tears and her lips, chapped and cracked, began to shake. She cradled her son close to her.

            “But we need him,” she then whispered, barely being heard over Milo’s cries,

            “Evie, you know they will-” a loud crack echoed several floors below and panic filled Evie’s eyes,

            “They’re here,” she whimpered, Connor moved quickly, pulling out a small metal tag and printing the baby’s full name on it, along with the date. He flung it around the baby’s neck before pulling Evie, and Milo, up to the centre of the room. He held up a small metallic ball, no bigger than a marble,

            “Tell him something,” Connor ordered, his cat like eyes set with panic and fury as he heard thunderous bangs, slowly coming closer to the floor they were on.

            “Milo,” Evie’s voice was shaking, “You don’t know me, but I am your Mother, you’re Mum, my name is Evie Jackerby and this is my husband-”

            “Hello Milo,” Connor rushed slightly, “I am Connor Jackerby, I am your Dad and-” the bangs got louder,

            “We love you so much Milo,” Evie almost wailed as the small baby in her arms cried in confusion and fear, “Be strong for us, Milo, we need you to be brilliant. We need you to be brave.” Connor was fiddling with a pocket porter; he set a date and a safety shield,

            “We love you Milo,” Connor said, “We will never forget you,”

            Three things happened at once.

            The weak door burst into flames and men in metallic and leather armour poured into the room. A few were wearing gas masks while others carried guns, whirling with cogs and buttons.

            Connor kissed his wife as he placed the small porter to the bare chest and pressed the small silver marble into the spherical socket on the front before pushing it down. He watched his son cry and slowly fade in a green light leaving the flannel cloth empty.

            Evie howled in pain as her husband caught her as she fell to the ground. Her tears formed a tsunami of emotions that could not be stopped, no matter how hard her husband held her. They both curled into a ball, Connor’s arms tangled around her, and quickly they were dragged away out of the door by two masked, armoured men.

17^th December, 3041

            It was 2:34am according to Agatha’s clock. Her short blonde hair was sticking up at odd angles as she rushed to the bathroom. Her abdomen aching.

            Five minutes later Agatha was cleaning her bathroom tiles from blood. Her face stung in the harsh light and her tears eroded into her skin. She hands were shaking as she pushed hard into the small, soaking mop. She gritted her teeth as she cleaned away any evidence of what had been inside her. She had to keep reminding herself, that it wasn’t alive. It couldn’t feel anything. It was just a bundle of cells.

            Why was she crying?

            At 3:01am she wandered slowly down to the ground floor of her house, finding the nearest empty glass to fill with water. She spotted her reflection is the glass door of the cabinet. Her tan skin was still freckled after the blistering summer and her wrinkles were beginning to show. If her ex-husband knew what happened… He’d be furious. When Agatha was born, the Doctors had told her, when she later hit puberty, that she would be unable to have children. But an hour ago her body had given up on the small set of cells inside, willing them to abort. She sighed. She didn’t think that would be a big deal to him, Richard, her ex-husband. But it was and she was now alone.

            Agatha was now “Aunt Aggie” the cool older sister to her nearly 30 year old, younger sister, Julie. Aggie was approaching 41 and her life was filled with nieces, nephews, cakes, cats, work and three year old divorce files.

            Agatha put down her glass and wandered, in her pyjamas, to the living room,

            “Weather?” she asked the five by five inch screen on her bookshelf, the screen replied happily,

            “Light snow fall, 6 degrees Celsius,” it glowed green and a small smile flickered onto the screen,

            “Thank you,” Agatha replied, flopping down onto her armchair, facing another bookshelf. Family photos lined the spare spaces on the shelf. Each face was smiling at her, almost taunting her, gloating at how happy and surrounded her younger sister was. Her tired eyes closed slowly, her brain wishing her to sleep when the small screen on the first bookshelf beeped,

            “Anomaly, front porch,” the screen went grey before bringing up the current camera footage of the light, ash porch. Agatha stood and stared at the screen and chuckled. George, her tabby cat, was waiting patiently at the front door.

            She padded down the carpeted hall way and pressed her palm to the large blue lock, the lock flashed green with the words “Unlock” flashing, Agatha pulled open her door and let George trot in. He purred happily before disappearing to a comfortable spot in living room. Agatha went to shut the door when a something caught her eye. At the very edge of the porch was a lump. In the night, it looked grey and unmoving however; as Agatha drew nearer she saw the lump move up and down repeatedly. Like it was moving. She called out,

            “Hello?” in response was quiet cry, the lump moving to form an arm, waving wildly in the air. She walked quickly across the porch to find a small, pink, wet baby.

            She stood there for one very long second. The snowflakes were caught in her messy hair. Her tired eyes wide from shock. Her brain, half wondering, whether this was all a dream. Why was a baby here? Instead of an answer, the baby cried, flailing its arms and legs into the air, it’s small face glowing red as it yelled. Quickly, Agatha scooped up the small, wet baby, and rushed back inside, locking her front door behind her.

            She washed the small baby in warm water and dried it with a small towel on the side of the sink. The baby kept crying. Agatha picked up baby and walked slowly up stairs, pulling her dressing gown from the tall golden hook by the upstairs cloak rack,

            “Hey,” she said, trying to make her shocked, tired voice into a soothing, motherly tone, “Where did you come from, little guy?” the baby cried as she wrapped herself and the baby up in the thick, soft dressing gown. He slowly grew quiet and, after a grabbing her index finger, he fell asleep.

            It was then Agatha’s brain kicked in and she noticed the small silver disk, attached to the child’s chest. It had a shiny orb sticking out of it. Carefully, without waking the baby, she pulled the disk and the orb off him. She then pulled the orb away from the disk and pressed it, hard. She listened.

            She listened again, not believing her ears.

            For the third time, she listened. She began to cry and hold the baby, baby Milo. He stirred in his sleep but he remained asleep as she lifted him to the centre of the bed. She then left him to prepare and pad a large pillow case and a few cushions. She placed them all in a bundle at the side of her wide, empty bed, and slowly placed Milo in the centre of the comfortable moment made cot.

            “Hello, I would like to fill in some adoption papers,” Agatha said to a tired looking man at the hospital desk, “I would also like an infant checked,” the man yawned and typed quickly,

            “The papers are under ‘A’,” he said, pointing slightly to the shelf on his left “And we can have a doctor with you in ten minutes,” Agatha nodded and settled down in one of the pearly white chairs in the waiting room. She had fashioned a few of old pillow cases to make a large baby carrier, to hold him up around her chest. Milo was awake and staring up at her, he gurgled and Agatha smiled down at him,

            “Hello Milo,” she whispered, his chest peeked through the pillow case fabric and she remembered how desperately she tried to erase the small red ring that the silver disk made on his chest. He didn’t seem to mind, he was an odd baby, he loved being washed. Being surrounded by the bubbles. He seemed fascinated by it all. He loved being held too. Agatha sighed; she never understood children that way. She loved being around them, having her nieces and nephews round her house, she loved talking to them and listening to how school and college was. She loved it all, but she did not once understand them. Why did they like being held? Why did they cry when something was wrong? Whenever something went wrong in Agatha’s life, the most she did was swear and yell. But she felt better afterwards.

            Milo gurgled and Agatha looked up to see a woman with a long silver plate in a long white coat approach her. She had a crisp smile on her lips though the ice blue in her eyes screamed business. It didn’t seem right that she would work with children.

            “You must be Agatha Jackerby,” the woman said, Agatha blinked quickly. She didn’t expect the data base to respond that quickly to her name change. She thought, for the sake of Milo’s, that if they had the same name it would be easier for him to grow up and live with her. Plus ‘Agatha Jones’ sounded dull.

            “That’s me,” Agatha finally said, trying to smile as she held out her hand to shake, the doctor stared down at it in slight disgust. Agatha lowered her hand to cradle Milo.

            “I am Doctor Ruth White,” the woman said, “You may follow me,” the woman took a silent glance at Agatha and then baby Milo before turning on her heel and walking towards the open archway. Agatha followed and felt the fast whoosh of air behind her as the archway slid shut. Doctor White’s black heels clacked on the plastic floor, echoing around the corridor as they passed other doctors a few families and a handful of new born babies and their mothers. Agatha’s thin legs found it difficult to keep up with Doctor White’s quick pace though, thankfully, the Doctor turned into a white washed room with blue plastic flooring. In the centre of the room was a black, rubber table and, in the corner, was a desk with glass computer. They were all the range for Doctors.

            “Please place Milo onto the table,” Doctor White instructed. Carefully, Agatha shed the pillow case and slowly placed a gurgling Milo onto the table. He blinked in the harsh light that Doctor White shone over his eyes,

            “A few days old,” she muttered before looking back to Agatha, “You are not the Mother?”

            “I am adopting him,” Agatha said nervously, “I had a background check this morning, I just need to file the official papers and-”

            “Yes,” Doctor White interrupted, already bored by Agatha’s voice. She turned to her desk and opened the top draw, pulling out a scanner. She pressed the button on the grip and the room filled with green light from the scanning screen. Milo blinked a few times before her began whimpering,

            “Sssh,” Agatha whispered, “Milo, sssh,”

            “Step away from the child,” Doctor White ordered, holding the scanner threateningly, “We need a clear read on the scanner to check his bones and vitals,” Agatha stepped back, with another stony glance from the Doctor, before she began to place the simple piece of machinery over Milo’s head slowly turning it over his ears and neck. Doctor White’s steel eyes remained on the screen facing her, showing her Milo’s skull, his brain, his ears drums. Everything. She moved the scanner down his body, looking at his spine and lungs,

            “He’ll be tall when he grows,” Doctor White said, “Around the upper end of five feet, maybe six foot,” Agatha nodded, smiling at the fact he would be taller than her,

            “His stomach is the right size,” Doctor White then said, she glanced up at Agatha, “He shouldn’t suffer from any… Disease,” the Doctor smirked and Agatha clenched her fists slowly, “I suggest you pick up a dietary leaflet on your way out, I wouldn’t want you to be checked into a rehab facility and-”

            “I am better now,” Agatha said, hopefully in a calm tone, the Doctor smirked again as she looked down at Milo’s legs,

            “Not without scars,” the Doctor said, “We still have your files, Miss Jones,” the two adults fell silent as the scanner returned to the happy beeping and Milo’s quiet whimpering,

            “He will make a good runner,” Doctor White then said, “Long legs; I suggest you get him into sports after a decade,” the Doctor then pulled out her clipboard, that was placed in her white coat pocket, she made a small note with a vicious scribble of her pen, “Pick up a few more programs on your way out,” Agatha nodded, not daring to speak another word to this… Woman. If she could call her that, that is.

            Doctor White finished her scan and nodded to Milo, who only whimpered in response, before placing the scanner back into her top desk draw and then pulling out a small, silver device. It looked like a small pair of glasses, two monocles that were glued together, but instead of glass they were filled with a dark blue glowing substance. Doctor White didn’t explain what they were as she placed them onto Milo’s small, baby nose. She then looked intently at Milo’s head, her unnaturally white finger tips tracing what hair he had,

            “Very good,” Doctor White muttered,

            “What is?” Agatha asked meekly, the Doctor glared at her before speaking,

            “He will have a very high IQ if tutored correctly, I suggest you look into private schooling though…” her voice trailed away as she focused on the side of Milo’s head, “He has a large memory centre, he’ll have an eidetic memory, his parents must have been very interesting to know,” she looked at Agatha who, under the stress, seemed to be even thinner. Agatha simply nodded and allowed Doctor White to finish scanning his brain.

            Another five minutes passed until Agatha and Milo were free to escape the cold clutches of Doctor White, as Agatha passed the front desk she picked up the educational leaflets and disks she would need for Milo and the adoption papers and files she would need to fill in at home. Despite the stress this would cause in later life, she was smiling for the first time in, what seemed, ages.