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  Mum and Dad hardly say a word any more. I think they might be giving up on me. They just sit and wait, their silence and their sadness filling the air around me. They talk in occasional whispers to each other, but not so much to me as they did. Still, at least they’re together. That’s something. No, that’s more than something. That’s a whole lot.

  Worst of all though, even Tracey seems to be losing heart. She doesn’t sing like she used to, and she was crying when she came in a moment ago. Somehow I know she wasn’t crying because of Trevor. And I’m pleased about that. I’d rather she cried over me than him. Let’s face it, Robbie, if Tracey thinks you’re not going to make it, then things are not looking good, not good at all.

  I sleep a lot, almost all the time now. I want to stay awake in my head. I know I must, or else I’ll die. I mean you can’t die if you’re awake, can you? It’s like when you’re drowning – I’ve read about it in books – if you want to keep afloat, if you want to keep alive, you have to stay awake. I sing Tracey’s songs in my head over and over again – Days and Imagine. I know them by heart. Got to keep my mind awake. Got to keep living. But the trouble is that sleep is warm and gentle and inviting, and when it takes me by the hand I just want to go…

  What’s beyond sleep, I wonder? A black hole? Or Nothing? Or Heaven? I don’t fancy a black hole. I certainly don’t fancy nothing. I’d prefer heaven, just so long as it’s not like where the Telly Tubbies live, with all those silly rabbits hopping about and that goo-goo grinning baby gurgling out of the sun. But I don’t like thinking about all that. I won’t think about all that. No more black holes, no more bunny-hopping heavens. Because I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here in this bed and I’m staying alive.

  I’m going to think of Chelsea against Man U and me in the Directors’ Box at Stamford Bridge – that’s heaven! And Zola looking up at me and giving me a great big Italian pizza of a grin and a thumbs-up, before he dribbles the ball past the Man U defenders and whacks it in the back of the net. And I’m on my feet and punching the air. Keep punching the air, Robbie. Keep cheering. Keep breathing.

  “Live Robbie, live.” It’s not me thinking any more. It’s Mum talking to me and she’s squeezing my hand, trying to make me feel her, trying to make me feel anything. “Live, Robbie darling. Don’t give up. Please.”

  I’m not giving up, Mum. It’s you lot that’s giving up, not me. I’m still here. I can feel you. As long as I can feel you, I’m alive. I’m sending you my mind-mail messages all the time, but you’re just not listening. No one’s listening any more, no one’s hearing, not even Tracey.

  Then Dad’s getting up. “I won’t be long, Robbie. The sun’s streaming through the window. Bit stuffy in here. I’ve got to get some fresh air.”

  When he’s gone, Mum cries quietly and holds my hand. Then she says: “Still, there’s one good thing that’s come out of all this, Robbie. At least you’ve stopped biting your nails.” She’s laughing. That’s better, Mum. I love to hear you laughing. “If you wake up, Robbie, there’s so many things I’ll never tell you off for again. I promise. I’ll never say, stop biting your nails, Robbie. I’ll never say, tidy your room, Robbie. I’ll never say, turn off the TV. And I’ll never say, stop saying ‘cool’. Promise.”

  I want so much to go on listening to her because I can hear she’s smiling as she’s talking and I love to hear her smiling. But I can’t stay awake. I’m feeling so heavy inside, so warm. I’m falling away from her into my sleep. I can’t stop myself. I can’t feel her hand any more. I can’t hear her voice. I try to come back to her, but I can’t. I hope she’ll be there when I wake up. I hope I will wake up.

  Sometimes it’s so difficult for me to know whether I’m dreaming or whether I’m awake. I seem to slip into sleep, and in and out of my dreams so easily. Right now, though, I know I’m dreaming, and I want this dream to go on and on, because I’m back at home in the garden playing with Lucky. I’ve had this dream before and I love it. I’m lying on my back in the grass, and Lucky’s standing on my chest and licking my face all over. I can’t stop myself giggling and I’m trying to push him off. Now he’s snuffling in my ear and whining and whimpering. His nose is cold. He smells of dog. He smells of Lucky and his breath stinks even worse than Dr Smellybreath’s. I want to stay inside this dream for ever and ever. I don’t want to wake up and be in hospital again. I want to stay here in the garden with Lucky.

  I can hear Dad’s voice, and can’t make out if he’s inside my dream or out of it. “Poor old Lucky,” he’s saying. “I’d forgotten to leave the car window open. Panting like crazy he was. Sun blazing down. No air. I was just giving him a little walk…”

  Mum’s interrupting. “You can’t bring him up here. What if—”

  And Dad says. “Look, I had to try. We’ve tried everything else, haven’t we? I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before. If anything or anyone can wake Robbie up, it’ll be Lucky, won’t it?”

  “But what if someone sees? You’re not allowed dogs in hospitals.”

  “But no one did see. I smuggled him in under my jacket.”

  This is not my dream, not any more. In the garden I was in my dream. But now I’m in hospital, and it’s Dad’s real voice I’m hearing. It’s Lucky’s real nose in my ear-hole. He’s on my bed. He’s licking my face as if he’s cleaning up his dog bowl after a meal. He’s licking every bit of my face, my eyes, my nose, my hair, my chin, my neck, my mouth. It’s Lucky! He’s not dead! He’s here now, in the hospital, on my bed. He’s alive!

  But I saw him go under that car. I know I did. So he can’t be alive, can he? Maybe this is still a dream after all. Only one way to find out. Only one way to be really, really certain. He’s licking my eyes. He’s telling me to open them. So I will. Open them, Robbie, open your eyes. Just do it. And I do. I can. I’m seeing, and I’m seeing Lucky. It’s him! It’s really him. I’m not dreaming him. His little eyes are looking right into mine. He’s grinning down at me. His tongue’s all dribbly. His dribble’s real. He’s real. It’s all real.

  I lift up my hand to stroke him, and that’s when they go bananas, loopy, mad, both Mum and Dad together. “Look! He’s moved his hand!” Mum’s grabbed Dad by his arm.

  “His eyes are open. Robbie? Robbie? Can you hear us?” “Can you see us? Talk to us Robbie. Talk to us.” I’m trying to smile, and it must be working, because now they’re both hugging me at once and they’re both crying.

  Lucky’s jumped off the bed and he’s yapping like crazy, and then everyone comes running in – a doctor in a white coat, who I suppose is Dr Smellybreath, and a nurse – Tracey – it has to be Tracey. I got her all wrong. She’s not tall like I thought she was. She’s really little, and she’s blonde, and she hasn’t got a nose ring. Ellie’s come and climbed up on the bed. So I get more wet kisses, more hugs. I’m drowning in tears and wet kisses.

  I’m trying to talk. I’ve only got a thin small squeaky voice, but it’s mine and it works, just about. I so want to say something, but I can’t get proper words out. They’re all listening, waiting, and all I can do is gurgle and squeak.

  “Don’t try to talk, Robbie,” Tracey is saying. “You’re all right. You’re back with us. You’re fine.”

  “Your eyes are open, Robbie,” says Ellie. “You’ve been sleeping for days and days and now you’re awake. Look, I gave you Pongo,” – she’s holding up Pongo by his ears – “but I only really lent him to you till you were better. And now you’re better, I can have him back, can’t I?” That’s my Ellie!

  Dr Smellybreath is bending over me, peering at me, looking deep into my eyes with his light, then feeling my forehead. “Wonderful,” he’s saying. “The power of the human body to heal itself. Just amazing. Nice to have you back with us, Robbie. You had us quite worried for a while there.” You were worried! Everyone’s hugging everyone and Lucky’s still going mad. A very angry looking lady in a white coat comes in and says: “What is going on in here? What’s that dog doing on my ward?”
/>   “That’s not a dog,” says Tracey, and she’s laughing through her tears, “that’s Lucky, and he works miracles.” Then everyone’s laughing and crying at the same time. I don’t think I’ve ever made people happier. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier myself.

  Dad’s the only one who hasn’t said anything yet. I think, like me, that maybe he’s trying to find his voice. When he does say something, it’s about what I expect. “Hello, Robbie. You all right then, are you?”

  “Cool, Dad,” I hear myself say. “Just cool.” Lucky’s back up on the bed and licking himself in embarrassing places, as usual, as if nothing at all has happened.

  “That dog is disgusting,” says Mum.

  And I say: “That dog is cool.”

  And Mum says: “Cool. It’s such a lovely word. It’s the best word in the world, the coolest.”

  Maybe Lucky does know what he’s done, because he’s looking at me now as if he’s very pleased with himself, very pleased indeed. And he’s smiling. The whole world’s smiling.

  MIRACLE BOY ROBBIE’S GREAT DAY

  FOOTBALL STAR GIANFRANCO ZOLA FULFILS HIS PROMISE

  In a bid to wake accident victim, 10-year-old Robbie Ainsley, from his coma, Zola promised him a VIP seat in the Directors’ Box when Chelsea next played Manchester United at home. And on Saturday Robbie was there to watch his hero put Man U to the sword, and score the winning goal himself…

  “It was great that Robbie was here to see us win,” said the Italian star. “It wouldn’t have been so good to wake up from his coma and come and see us lose, would it? I gave him a bit of a wave when I scored my goal. I dedicated that goal specially to him. It’s a great day for me, for all of us at Chelsea because it’s like Robbie came back from the dead almost to be with us. That’s a whole lot more important than beating Manchester United, I think.”

  Robbie’s family came along for the match as well, with the family dog, Lucky. He was knocked down in the same accident, but like Robbie he survived – luckily.

  And Robbie’s comment on his great day at Chelsea? “Gianfranco and me kicked a ball about afterwards. Just him and me – and Lucky. It was cool.”

  But that wasn’t the end of Robbie’s great day out. He was back in Exeter in time for the evening performance of the Panto at the Northcott Theatre to see his dad play the part of one of the ugly sisters.

  Said Robbie: “He was cool, really cool.”

  Also by Michael Morpurgo

  The Dancing Bear

  The Butterfly Lion

  Farm Boy

  Dear Olly

  Billy the Kid

  Toro! Toro!

  Private Peaceful

  For younger readers

  Albertine, Goose Queen

  And Pigs Might Fly

  Jigger’s Day Off

  Martians at Mudpuddle Farm

  Mossop’s Last Chance

  Mum’s the Word

  Mr Skip

  Picture books

  Sam’s Duck

  Wombat Goes Walkabout

  Gentle Giant

  Audio

  Kensuke’s Kingdom (read by Derek Jacobi)

  Dear Olly (read by Paul McGann)

  Out of the Ashes (read by Sophie Aldred)

  The Butterfly Lion (read by Virginia McKenna)

  Billy the Kid (read by Richard Attenborough)

  Farm Boy (read by Derek Jacobi)

  Private Peaceful (read by Paul McGann)

  Copyright

  First published in Great Britain by Collins 2002

  Collins is an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

  77-85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

  The HarperCollinsChildren’sBooks website address is:

  www.harpercollinschildrensbooks.co.uk

  THIRD EDITION

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub Edition © APRIL 2010 ISBN: 978-0-007-38241-5

  Text copyright © Michael Morpurgo 2002

  Illustrations copyright © Michael Foreman 2002

  The author and illustrator assert the moral right to be identified as author and illustrator of the work.

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