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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.
    â€˜All set, Igor,’ she called, sitting in the seat closest to the cockpit.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I am the pilot,’ said Igor, ‘not a mad scientist’s henchman.’
    Dillon felt his face redden. ‘I … I’m sorry.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜He’s Russian,’ said Flick, by way of explanation.
    â€˜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 seemedlike 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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 oflight 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 …
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Yes,’ agreed Mum. ‘We’ve been on the organ donor waiting list for about two