“Try and sleep it off,” she says. But I can’t sleep. I have too much stuff whizzing around my head. I need to be much more ill than this for the army to send my dad back home. I clutch my tummy. “Ooooowww,” I cry. “Mum, I think I might have appendicitis. I’m in so much pain. I really need the hospital or at least the doctor.” “You said it was meningitis an hour ago,” she says. “Jemima, where exactly is the pain?” “It’s here,” I say, pointing to my head. “And here.” I clutch my tummy again and twist my body so it looks like I’m in pain. She slides the thermometer under my arm and rests her hand on my forehead. “You don’t have a fever,” she says, checking the thermometer reading, “and you’d definitely have one if it was meningitis or appendicitis. Mrs Spencer’s right, it’s probably just a migraine, Mima. Let’s get you upstairs; we’ll pull your blind down and make the room dark. Drink plenty of water and probably best to avoid food for a while.”
