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memory from my dream. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the image. A dark room, a grey-bearded man on a low bed, his forehead bandaged and his body contorted with pain. I reckon it must be Captain Wilton but why… why am I having these God-awful dreams? What is it about this joint?
    Dad calls me to join the others in the kitchen. Mum and Dad believe in regular family dining—at least one sit-down meal together every week. It’s not always easy to organise, what with Dad’s weird hours and Mel’s triathlon training, but it’s a fixture. Not negotiable. Mum always raves on about how kids that eat with their families have healthier diets and stronger immune systems—I know the speech off by heart—but she admitted a while back that there’s another agenda. These get-togethers are her way of keeping the four of us connected and in tune but, ever since the accident, they’ve been far from harmonious.
    I steel myself and enter the kitchen. Mel glares at me. I do my best to block any mental message she beams my way but I needn’t bother. It’s pretty clear what she’s thinking. Pip won’t even look at me.
    I sigh, tramp to the stove and lean towards the steaming saucepan, inhaling deeply. Not a good idea. The pasta looks sensational but the thick aroma of garlic, olives and anchovies makes me want to throw up. I excuse myself, blaming a migraine I don’t have, and retreat to my room, feeling guilty as hell. Just because I’m having a shit holiday I don’t need to spoil it for the others. Although if Mel was to have a crap time that might make me feel… nah. Even I’m not that vindictive.
    I try to read a novel I was given for Christmas, some wham-bam bounty hunter thing, but can’t focus. The letters shimmy, refusing to sit still and make words. I switch off the lamp and close my eyes but can’t sleep either. Instead, I think of the captain, feverish and frantic, battling to survive the infection. Determined to live, even without his eye, for the sake of his daughter, and for the sailors he swore to protect. A dedicated man dying a lingering, tormented death simply because he stumbled. Death by wrong-footed, rotten luck.
    And I think of the guys, my guys, loud and larger than life. Aaron—charismatic and confident. Carlo—the class joker, loved by everyone. And big-hearted Boris, the go-to man whenever you needed a hand. Gone in an instant. No second chances. Death by recklessness, overconfidence or stupidity. Maybe all of the above.
    Then, for some reason, I’m thinking of all those deaths in the disaster that was September 11 2001. Mum and Dad tried to shelter us kids from the news reports but the footage was replayed on TV so often it was impossible to avoid. I only needed to see it once and I had nightmares for months. Even now, as the planes dive again through my mind, nausea flares in my gut. Imagine sitting in an office, following your daily routine, when horror gatecrashes your life. You barely have time to comprehend the chaos before your world combusts. Death by…God only knows what. Incomprehensible hatred? Blind fanaticism? Corrupted religion?
    And I think of me. The one Death keeps hooking, kissing and throwing back. The one beating the house in some cosmic casino.
    I nearly drowned in an ice-clad river. I’ve been scorched in a bushfire and almost electrocuted. I was in a plane crash with Dad, the car smash with my mates. That makes me five parts dead. Five of my nine lives gone and I’m still here.
    Why? Why me? I wasn’t the strongest, toughest or fittest of the blokes in the Falcon. Not the smartest, best looking, coolest or funniest. Just the luckiest.
    What the hell does it mean? That there’s something
    I have to do before my time expires? That I’ll keep getting chances until I seal a deal with fate? Save the planet? Cure cancer? As if. There’s no way I’m the chosen one or anything