Flyaway by Lucy Christopher

something.
    And then, suddenly, I know what I'm going to do. I know exactly what I can do to keep Dad's spirits up. I'll watch the swan like he says.
    â€˜I'll meet you in the cafe in an hour,’ I tell Mum.

CHAPTER 20
    I stick to the edge, following the fence around the car park. I can't find a proper entrance, but there is a shed that seems to sag at the corners, and there is a slit in the fence in front of it. It runs vertically from where my shoulder is to the base. I lean against the splintery wood of the shed and pull back the wire, testing it. It bends back easily, as if it has been bent like this before. I curl it towards me like a wave, opening up the slit. Then I kick at it, pushing it back further. I ignore the sign: Keep out. Authorised persons only . Take a breath. Then bend my body through.
    I take a few steps. It doesn't look the same down here as it did through Harry's window. There are plastic bags halfsubmerged in the mud around my feet, crushed beer cans and hundreds of cigarette butts. I step across a faded washing powder box. I almost turn back. It's obvious I'm not supposedto be here. I don't know what those ‘authorised persons’ would do if they found me. I'm not the first person to have done this, though. I can tell that by the way the ground has been trampled into a path that leads to a patch of trees.
    The memory of Dad's face keeps me going. He looked different when I mentioned the swan, excited almost. And Mum said that anything that lifted Dad's spirits was good for him. I try to convince myself that I'm doing the right thing.
    I step across the manky brown carpet of dead leaves. At the patch of trees, I find another sign, propped up against a trunk. Hospital Patrons Only. Please Keep to the Track . The path feels firmer now, as if it used to be a proper trackway.
    I walk on, going deeper into the trees. It gets darker the further in I go. Everything's so silent. There are no machines whirring on and off, no trolleys trundling past, no patients crying out. I can only hear the wind whispering leaves and bits of rubbish about. It smells better than in the hospital, too, like damp leaves and mud. I wish I could bottle it and take it back for Dad.
    I step over another crushed beer can and look ahead to where it's getting lighter. There's a gap beyond the trees. If Dad were here with me he'd walk confidently, blabbing on about how alive it makes a person feel to be out in nature. He'd be stopping to look at beetles in the leaf litter, and touching the trees. He wouldn't be scared at all. There's a real ache in my chest as I think about it. I want Dad here with me. It's not fair that he isn't. But I've got my phone in my pocket. I'll just go up to the lake, take a photo of the swan, have a goodlook around for any others and then leave. I won't hang about.
    I hear a crack to my left. The bushes shake. A dark patch of brambles moves violently from side to side. I freeze. Then the movement stops. I stare at the leaves, waiting. A drop of frosty water lands on my head and then slides down my cheek. Something small and black shoots out of the bushes. I trip backwards over a tree root and almost fall. But it's only a bird. A stupid coot with a smug white face. I'm such a bag of nerves.
    I get to the lake. The swan is still there. She's not far away, floating on her own. I look across the water and at the land around the edges. There aren't any others. She's smaller and more grey than most, but she's definitely a whooper. Her beak is long and yellow, like all whoopers’, but has traces of pink. I don't think she's even a year old. It's weird, but there's something almost familiar about her. I'm sure she's the same bird we saw at the reserve that day, looping above us. I'm sure I've found her. That's already enough to tell Dad.
    I go to the edge of the water, towards her. She doesn't move but she seems to be watching me, her small black eyes fixed on mine. She's a beautiful swan, with clean