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  Dillon laughed. Mum’s attention snapped to him, her face tense. But then she relaxed and nodded. ‘Okay. How about I ring and let the RFDS know what’s happened?’

  ‘Excellent idea,’ said Dad as he started jacking up the car.

  Mum walked off behind them. Making that call would keep her busy and out of Dad’s way. It would also help her stay calm.

  ‘Need a hand?’ asked Dillon, eager to participate.

  ‘No, no,’ assured Dad, getting to work on loosening the wheel nuts. ‘I’ve got this.’

  Dillon sighed. Whenever Dad refused assistance, it made Dillon wonder: Is it because I’m defective?

  Was Dad trying to protect him? Or didn’t he think he was capable? Or was it just coincidence?

  Whatever the case, it made Dillon feel left out. Excluded from the details of his own adventure.

  With nothing else to do, Dillon worried. He worried about getting the transplant, about not getting the transplant, about the possibility of another incompatible liver. But mostly, he worried about being late.

  What if this delay stuffs up everything?

  Being quick was important when it came to transplanting organs. A liver would only be viable for transplant for a certain amount of time after the donor had died … although he wasn’t really sure how long that was. No one had actually told him that. But he thought that it was different from case to case, depending on the circumstances of death. Either way, he didn’t want to miss his opportunity because of a stupid flat tyre.

  Mum finished her call and walked back to the car to see that it was fixed.

  ‘And that would be a new family record,’ said Dad, heaving the replaced wheel into the boot and tossing the jack in after it.

  ‘Fastest tyre-changer in the West,’ quipped Mum. Now that everything was okay again, she seemed more ready to joke about it.

  ‘Maybe we should apply to the Guinness World Records?’ suggested Dad.

  ‘Or maybe we should just get going?’ said Mum. ‘Come on.’

  They all got back into the car. Dad paused like he had earlier, holding the key in the ignition.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked, after taking a long, deep breath.

  ‘Oh, would you just get moving!’ demanded Mum.

  ‘Right-oh, then.’ Dad turned the key and the engine started. ‘Fingers crossed for smooth sailing from here on in.’

  Sailing? thought Dillon. We’re in a car, not a boat. He often considered Dad’s choice of analogy to be a bit weird.

  The car took off, zooming up the deserted road.

  ‘Well, that was a bit of an adventure,’ said Dad.

  ‘Let’s hope there aren’t any more,’ countered Mum.

  A flat tyre is nothing, thought Dillon. The transplant is going to be the real adventure.

  The rest of the journey to the airport was uneventful. They arrived at 1.25 am, parked and made their way to the RFDS Aeromedical Base in the north-west of the airport. It was positioned along with the charter services, between the main terminal and the car rental places.

  A woman in dark blue trousers and a light blue short-sleeved shirt approached them as they arrived. The logo on her shirt immediately identified her as an RFDS nurse. She was tying her long blonde hair into a high ponytail as she walked.

  ‘Hello,’ she said cheerily, readjusting her red-rimmed glasses. ‘You must be the Grayson family.’

  ‘That’d be us,’ answered Dad, stifling a yawn. ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘No worries,’ said the nurse, eyes bright and alive. ‘It’s rather late to be out and about.’

  ‘You seem to be handling it better than us,’ said Dad, heading into small-talk mode. He did it automatically whenever he was anxious – as if talking about normal, ordinary things would make everything okay.

  ‘Been doing shift work for many years now,’ said the nurse. ‘You get used to it pretty quick. And I rather like night flights.’ She turned her attention to Dillon. ‘Dillon, I presume. My name’s Felicity and I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.’ She stuck out her hand.

  Dillon shook it awkwardly. ‘Ah … hi.’

  ‘There’s no need to be nervous,’ Felicity went on. ‘This is all pretty standard. Follow me.’ With a flick of her ponytail she turned and strode off. ‘By the way,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘you can call me Flick’.

  Mum and Dad shrugged in unison and followed, Dillon bringing up the rear.

  Flick led them into the almost empty terminal, through a door that bypassed the metal detectors and X-ray machines, and onto the tarmac.

  ‘There she is,’ announced Flick, pointing to the RFDS plane.

  ‘A Pilatus PC-12,’ piped up Dillon, his eyes going over the plane in the airport lights.

  The plane looked very sporty, with its white body, red undercarriage and blue tail. Even though it only had one propeller, it still said ‘speed’ to Dillon.

  Flick turned to him, a little surprised. ‘Well informed, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ve been on one,’ said Dillon. ‘About six weeks ago.’

  ‘He liked it so much,’ said Dad, ‘that we got him a toy model.’

  ‘So you’ve flown with us before?’ said Flick. ‘Why was that?’

  ‘It was a false alarm,’ explained Mum. ‘We went to Melbourne for a donor liver, but after doing tests they realised it wasn’t a match.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Flick. ‘Hopefully things will be better this time.’ She turned to Mum and Dad. ‘Now, which of you will be accompanying our patient today? As you know, there’s only room for one extra passenger.’

  ‘I’m coming,’ said Mum.

  ‘And I’ll join them later in the day,’ added Dad. ‘Assuming all’s clear for the transplant.’

  ‘We’re good to go straight away,’ said Flick. ‘So I shall say goodbye to you, Mr Grayson.’ She lifted a hand and waved, smiling all the while. ‘Goodbye. And the rest of us may now board.’ She headed towards the plane.

  ‘Good luck, son,’ said Dad, giving Dillon a tight, bone-crushing hug. ‘I’ll be thinking of you.’

  After he had also hugged Mum, she and Dillon followed Flick up the stairs and into the cabin. It was all very familiar. As before, Dillon marvelled at this flying hospital room.

  Two stretchers were attached to one wall; monitors, IV drips and other equipment secured around them.

  Dillon and Mum took the two seats that faced each other. Flick closed the door, the stairs hinging up to seal off the cabin.

  ‘All set, Igor,’ she called, sitting in the seat closest to the cockpit.

  ‘Igor?’ asked Dillon with a smirk, thinking back to the old black-and-white horror films he had watched with Dad. They were more funny than scary. ‘Does that mean Frankenstein’s on board as well?’

  ‘No, it does not,’ responded a low, gruff voice with just the hint of an accent.

  Dillon and Mum stared towards the cockpit as a short man with a bushy dark moustache and sideburns appeared in the doorway. He wore a blue flight jacket zipped up right to the neck. He was chewing on something. Glaring from person to person, he swallowed, then sucked air through his teeth.

  ‘I am the pilot,’ said Igor, ‘not a mad scientist’s henchman.’

  Dillon felt his face redden. ‘I … I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not to worry,’ said Igor, his face breaking into an unexpected grin. Dillon noticed he had food stuck in his teeth. ‘It is a common mistake. I am called Igor Vyacheslavovich Maspnov.’

  ‘He’s Russian,’ said Flick, by way of explanation.

  ‘No, no,’ corrected Igor. ‘My parents are Russian. Me, I am a true-blue, dinky-di Aussie.’ And as if to prove it, he added a ‘G’day, mate!’ before disappearing back into the cockpit.

  Dillon and Mum looked at each other. This pilot was very different to the one on their last flight. That other pilot had seemed like he had walked out of a flight-school brochure – tall, blond, neat and very official, using words like ‘wilco’, ‘affirmative�
� and ‘roger’. Igor was something else.

  Flick shrugged. ‘You get used to him.’

  ‘Okay.’ Igor’s voice now came over the speakers. ‘Strap yourselves in. We are good to go.’

  Dillon hurriedly secured his seatbelt for safety.

  The cabin rattled as the engine roared into life. With a little jerk the plane began to taxi along the runway, the whine of machinery increasing.

  ‘Here we go again,’ said Mum, hopefully.

  Dillon nodded then pressed his face up against the window. He took a deep breath and looked out at the airport, splashes of light illuminating the buildings and planes. The hum and shake of his surroundings faded into the distance as he gazed into the beckoning night. He barely even noticed the aircraft lifting off.

  The events of the day fell away.

  His worries about the future melted like snowflakes in the sun.

  As the plane flew over populated areas, Dillon played his game of dot-to-dot. When the lights were all gone and they were flying over unseen desert landscape, he returned his attention to the cabin.

  He noticed Mum looking at him with a strange expression – a mixture of hope and fear.

  Immediately, his own anxieties came flooding back.

  Will this be another false alarm? Will a blood test send me straight home, like last time? Or will I get a new liver?

  But the possibility of the operation going ahead was just as frightening as it not going ahead. Visions of a scalpel cutting into his flesh, blood spurting everywhere, burned in his mind. Hands reaching inside of him and pulling out a red, meaty organ …

  ‘I’m a nurse,’ announced Flick, the words dispelling the images from Dillon’s mind. ‘So if there’s anything you’d like to know about your upcoming procedure, feel free to ask.’ She spoke loudly, precisely, like an actor projecting on stage, in order to be heard over the sound of the engine.

  ‘Um,’ Dillon looked at Mum. ‘I think we pretty much know everything already.’

  The last thing Dillon wanted to do was talk about the operation. That would just make him more nervous.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Mum. ‘We’ve been on the organ donor waiting list for about two years. We’ve had a lot of time to study up and prepare.’

  ‘Too much time,’ added Dillon.

  ‘Okay,’ said Flick. ‘Just remember that I’m here should you change your mind and want to ask anything.’ She settled back in her seat.

  ‘I guess this must be kinda boring for you,’ said Dillon, trying to make conversation. ‘Kind of like babysitting.’

  ‘If you think babysitting is boring, it probably means that you’ve never tried it!’ said Flick with a little laugh. ‘Babysitting my nephews is like trying to arrange a meditation session in the middle of a war zone. Anyway, in this line of work, boring is good. The non-boring flights are usually emergency situations.’

  ‘Do you get many boring flights?’ asked Mum, joining in.

  ‘Actually, yes.’ Flick leaned forward, obviously happy to talk. ‘Well, I don’t like to think of them as boring. Even if my nursing skills aren’t required on a flight, I still get to meet interesting people.’ She smiled at Dillon as she said this. ‘The RFDS do quite a lot of transfer flights. People being taken from one hospital to another. I suppose most of those could be described as routine rather than boring. The patient is often in a stable condition and we’re just getting them to a specialist. But we’d still have to do obs.’

  Dillon looked quizzically at her.

  ‘Sorry. “Obs” is short for observations. It’s nurse talk. It means checking things like blood pressure, heart rate, temperature. But in your case, I don’t need to really do anything. It’s more of an aerial taxi service because we’re the only plane free at this time of night at such short notice.’

  ‘We’re very thankful that you are available,’ said Mum, rather more earnestly than needed.

  Dillon pondered what would have happened to him if there was no RFDS. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘Just doing our jobs,’ Flick assured them with a warm smile.

  Dillon yawned.

  ‘Perhaps you should get some sleep,’ suggested Flick. ‘You look pretty tired. And we’ve still got about an hour and twenty minutes before we get there.’

  ‘I don’t think I can,’ said Dillon. ‘Too nervous.’

  ‘And I’m certainly not going to nap,’ added Mum.

  ‘Couldn’t hurt to try,’ said Flick.

  ‘How old are your nephews?’ asked Mum, wanting a conversation to distract her.

  ‘Four and seven,’ answered Flick.

  Then the two of them were off on an in-depth discussion about how wonderful little kids were and about how they grow up too fast and about all the cute things they did before growing up too fast.

  Boring.

  Dillon closed his eyes as the voices droned on.

  There was a voice in the distance that sounded like it was talking through a loudspeaker.

  Dillon opened his eyes.

  ‘Hello there, sleepyhead,’ said Flick. ‘Good to see you took my advice. We’re not far now. Perfect time to wake up – Igor just asked if you wanted to come into the cockpit.’

  ‘Yeah!’ Dillon tried to spring from his seat, forgetting his belt. ‘Ooooph!’ His face heated up with embarrassment as he unbuckled himself and made his way to the end of the cabin.

  ‘Hi,’ said Dillon, looking into the cockpit.

  ‘Hi yourself,’ answered Igor. ‘Have a sit.’

  Dillon manoeuvred his way into the seat next to Igor. It was padded and more comfortable than the one he had in the cabin. He gazed at the instrumentation in front of him – a confusing array of switches, dials, knobs, lights, displays. And two steering wheels – one for each seat.

  ‘Um, shouldn’t you have a co-pilot?’ asked Dillon nervously.

  ‘He was late so I left without him,’ answered Igor.

  ‘What?’ Panic leaped up into Dillon’s throat.

  ‘Kidding!’ said Igor. ‘Relax, I don’t need a co-pilot. It’s not part of standard procedures. Having one pilot on standby is expensive enough.’ He chuckled to himself and Dillon wasn’t sure if he was joking again.

  Dillon’s eyes returned to the dashboard. There were two screens in the centre that reminded him of the one in the fancy new hybrid car his parents bought a couple of months ago. The first screen displayed a navigational chart and the other a series of complex-looking readings, mostly numbers. Dillon let out a long breath.

  ‘It’s not as complicated as it seems,’ Igor assured him. ‘And once you’re up in the air it’s mostly automatic, anyway. I’m just here for show.’ He chuckled again, deep and hearty.

  Dillon looked through the windscreen. In the distance he could see a large cluster of lights. ‘Is that Melbourne?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure is,’ said Igor. ‘Beautiful from up here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ agreed Dillon.

  ‘Especially in the dark,’ continued Igor. ‘I love the lights at night, like little explosions of joy in the lonely blackness. As you get closer the lights multiply. One dot becomes many. And every dot brightens the lives of many people. It is magnificent.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dillon slowly, awestruck by the sight and the concept. ‘Yes, it is.’

  I could stay up here forever, he thought. Above everything. Beyond all my problems and fears.

  Igor’s arm shot out and his hand zipped over the controls.

  ‘This is Flying-Doctor-5-4-1,’ said Igor, adjusting his headset. He listened a moment, then continued. ‘We have a patient transfer for the organ donor program, so, yes, it is important we land ASAP.’ He paused a moment and his voice rose. ‘Why? What’s happening?’ He paused again. ‘Could you please … actually, hold on.’ He covered the microphone with his hand and turned to Dillon, any trace of cheer and humour gone from his face. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to return to the cabin now, thank you.’

  Dillon’s heart was racin
g as he got up. In his hurry he banged his hip into the back of the seat, then rushed out.

  Mum took one look at his expression as he returned and immediately leaned forward to ask: ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Dillon, panic rising. ‘Something.’

  Dillon and his mum looked at each other with mounting worry. There had been no word from Igor since Dillon had left the cockpit. Not knowing what was going on was stressful. It might not be anything to be concerned about but, then again, it could be some sort of disaster.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Flick, noticing their exchange of worried glances.

  Before Dillon could answer, Igor’s voice boomed from the speakers: ‘We have a bit of a situation. One of the runways is temporarily out of commission. Something is wrong with the lights. They are down to using one runway for all arrivals and departures, and there is a backlog of freight planes circling and waiting to land. I’ve stressed the importance of our situation and am now awaiting further instruction.’ Dillon heard a long, deep intake of breath. ‘So, for now, we’re stuck up here.’

  ‘Delay?’ Mum’s eyes were wide and concerned. ‘What about the transplant? We were told we had to get there as quickly as possible.’

  A tremor ran through Dillon’s body. First a flat tyre, now an airport delay – nothing was going right.

  ‘Let’s not get too concerned yet,’ said Flick, her voice calm and even. ‘The delay may only be short. And even if it is a while, that doesn’t necessarily mean the transplant has to be cancelled. There is usually some leeway in terms of timing.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ said Mum, folding her arms and leaning back in her chair, her face a stony mask.

  ‘May only be short’? ‘Doesn’t necessarily mean’? ‘Usually some leeway’? That doesn’t sound all that reassuring, thought Dillon.

  Flick unbuckled her belt and got up. ‘I’m going to check in with Igor and also see if I can get a message to the Royal Children’s Hospital.’