Flyaway by Lucy Christopher Page B

try to scare her into taking off. Instead, spray splashes from her feet as she lowers her body back to the water and refolds her wings. Instantly she's calm, as if she were never running to take off in the first place.
    I collapse onto my hands and knees, and gasp for air. My body's hot, my school shirt's stuck to my back. I turn my head sideways to the lake. I take a breath, as long as I can make it, then another. I see her, now floating further away. Why did she follow me like that? Why didn't she just fly? If Dad were here, he'd probably be able to explain it. Perhaps racing humans around a lake is some strange swan behaviour thing that I've never heard of. Perhaps it's what swans do when they're stressed. I don't know.
    I wait until the breath stops rattling in my throat before I sit up properly. I watch the swan float further away. She's so uninterested now. I stand up, shakily. I glance back at the track. My footprints are there, digging into the muddy surface. I know I didn't imagine what just happened.

CHAPTER 21
    I walk straight through the hospital entrance and take the stairs two at a time. All the while, I'm starting to doubt what just happened. That swan can't really have been following me. Swans just aren't that interested in humans. Perhaps I've gone mad. Maybe it's because I'm stressed. I remember some TV programme Mum was interested in, where they were talking about how stress affected behaviour. The people who were interviewed did all sorts of strange things. Some of them had even hallucinated whole conversations with imaginary people. Perhaps that's what I've done; I've imagined the swan following me. Or at least, imagined the way she was looking at me. But it felt so real.
    I need to talk to Dad. I know he'll be able to explain it. Maybe that kind of thing has happened to him before; perhaps it's just what swans do, sometimes.
    Visiting hours are over, but I go to Dad's ward anyway. The nurse at the entrance desk takes one look at me and shakes her head.
    â€˜You've got mud on your shoes,’ she says with a thick Scottish accent. It's difficult to understand what she means straight away.
    I look down. All the way behind me there's a trail of marks on the shiny floor.
    â€˜But I need to tell him something,’ I say, my thoughts still full of the swan. ‘It's important.’
    I keep the feathers grasped tight in my pocket. If the nurse is unhappy about the mud, she probably won't like them much either. She scrunches up her face into that sympathetic look I've seen a lot recently.
    â€˜I'm sorry, hen, but you need to have your mum here with you. We can't let you in without her permission . . . even if it were visiting hours.’
    She comes around the desk and stands close to me. I think she can see how worked up I am.
    â€˜Tell you what,’ she says softly. ‘Why don't we look at your dad, together, from the doorway?’
    Her voice goes up in pitch, making it sound as if she's talking to a five-year-old. It's not what I want, watching Dad from the doorway with a nurse's hand on my arm. I want to go right up to him and give him the feathers. I want to hug him and ask him about the swan. But what else can I do?
    The nurse leads me to the entrance of the ward. She stands behind me, her hands on my shoulders. I feel like a suspectin a cop show; it's as if she's about to march me off to the police station. The curtains are open around Dad's bed, but I can't see him properly, not from here, not even when I stand on tiptoes. I think he's asleep. He's very still. So still it doesn't look like he's breathing. I feel my heartbeat speed up. I'm being paranoid. There'd be beeping and alarms and nurses running to him if he stopped breathing. I take a step away. I don't want to imagine it.
    â€˜See, hen, he's fine,’ the nurse coos. ‘No problems at all. Now what did you want to tell him?’
    I shake her off and make for the door. She's calling something else out to