I’m busy searching through the bottom of my wardrobe for my French textbook. I’m not sure why, but I turn my head and he’s there, standing just inside my bedroom doorway. I gasp as his fierce expression catches me unawares, and my heart thumps louder and harder, not just through fear, but almost as if it recognises him. I’m petrified, but I have to speak to him. I try to say something, but my mouth’s dry and the words won’t come out. Another second and he’s gone. My blood runs cold. Could this boy be my donor? Shocked, I try to push away this thought, but it refuses to budge and won’t let me ignore it. Auntie Vi’s words about ‘spirits of the dead’ ring in my ears, giving me goosebumps. My head aches as I try to make sense of it all. If my donor’s haunting me, I reason desperately, why am I seeing other things too – that park, the house with the shutters and that dark-haired girl? I head into the bathroom, bend over the sink and slosh cold water onto my face. As I look up, instead of my own reflection in the mirror, I’m staring at a boating lake with a bramble-covered island.
