The tiny egg began to split. Max peeled away the shell, piece by broken piece. Inside was curled the tiniest thing—all red transparent skin and tufts of gray fluff. Between two thick fingers, Max picked up one pink leg and dangled the hatchling by its miniature claw.

“Stop it,” Laika said. “Don’t do that. You’re hurting it.”

“It’s really gross,” Freddie said, “It looks like Frankenstein.” The baby bird’s tiny monstrous head lolled on a neck too thin to support it. Its skull was almost entirely taken up by two dark, hazy discs under the skin where its eyes should be. Then it gave a shudder. It opened its tiny pale, yellow beak and moments later its entire body seemed to pound as it started to breathe.

“Fantastic,” Angus said. “It’s properly alive.”

“You’ve got to put it back,” Laika said. “It needs its mum. It’s got to have food.”

“Here,” Angus said, “hold out your hands.” He dropped the tiny creature into Laika’s palm, “Go on, then, if you care so much. You do it. You put it back.”

Laika looked at the boys, up at the tree, at me. Then she looked up at the house, and before I could stop her she bolted, her little legs flying across the lawn. “Mum,” I heard her shout. “Mum!”

“Don’t go up there,” I yelled. “Laika, come back.”

But my sister was already halfway up the lawn.

“There goes space pup Laika,” Freddie said, “off on a mission to Mars.”

“You shits,” I said. I turned and ran, the braying of their laughter following me up to the house.

By the time I got to the terrace, Laika was already weaving her way between the adults, her hands cupped carefully before her, in them the tiny baby bird. She found our mother talking to Aunt Deedee, both of them sunk into patio loungers softened by thick cushions, glasses in hand, their voices spirited and a little slurred. I hung back, afraid of my aunt’s dogs, both of which had sat up on Laika’s approach and were watching my sister, squinting at her through small, tight eyes, their triangular ears stiff and alert.

“Mum,” Laika said.

“Don’t interrupt now, Laika,” my aunt said. “Manners, please. Wait until you’ve been asked to speak.”

“It’s an emergency.”

My mother turned to Laika, her features softened by sun and champagne. The bright sun made her gray eyes shine like mirrored glass, and there was a small smudge of red lipstick just above her upper lip. “What is it, darling?” she said.

“Look,” Laika said. “It needs help.”

My mother peered into my sister’s hands, saw the tiny pulsating creature, its skinny hairless wings and strange, fetal head, and recoiled.

“Darling,” she said. “You shouldn’t pick up things like that. It could be sick. Put it back please, wherever you found it.”

“But, Mum,” Laika said, her voice rising, panicky-scared, “we can’t. Its nest is all the way back up the tree.”

“Sometimes baby birds do fall out of their nests, sweetheart. And then the mummy birds pop along and collect them.”

“Don’t indulge her with nonsense, Bianka,” my aunt said. “It just encourages her. Tell her to go and wash her hands.”

Laika stood between them, her eyes filling with tears.

“But, Mum,” she said.

“For goodness’ sake, Laika,” my aunt said, “just put it down. You’re spoiling your mother’s party.”

My aunt reached into Laika’s hands, plucked out the tiny bird and put it on the ground. Instantly both dogs raced forward and, in a single swift and bloody lunge, one of them snatched up the baby bird in its jaws. I thought I heard the sound of soft bones popping. The tiny bird was gone. There was a moment of silence before the terror and shock fully registered, then Laika threw back her head and howled. She kept her empty hands held in front of her as fat tears coursed down her face and rivulets of snot streamed from her nose, her chest heaving with the same giant shuddering breaths that had pounded the baby bird. She was loud, too loud. My parents’ guests turned their heads toward the source of the noise.

“Oh, dear,” one woman said, “someone’s a little overexcited.”

And now she had my father’s attention.

Seeing him look toward the source of the commotion, my aunt waved a hand at my father and, in an exaggerated gesture, pointed at my sister, widening her eyes.

My father came toward us. I stood back.

“All right, foghorn,” he said, “that’s enough.” He smiled at their guests. “Come on, let your mother enjoy her day.” He took my sister firmly by her upper arm and almost lifted her in the direction of the kitchen door. “Go into the house.”

I went to follow.

“Just stay here,” he said, “and let her calm down.”

And so I did. I stayed on the terrace, kicking my heels, by the edge of the adults.

I should have gone to her. Of course I should have gone to her.

I don’t like to think about what happened after that.

7 A Doll in a Music Box Willa

The days stepped relentlessly toward November the third. I couldn’t stop them. I’m okay, I told myself. I’m okay.

But I was not.

Night after night I lay awake, staring at the ceiling while Robyn slept, her breath calm and steady in the night.

Dread flooded me. I should have looked after her, I thought. Everything is my fault.

My stomach flooded and pooled; I felt sick all the time and I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t slow things down. I could feel blood speeding too fast through my veins, thudding in my temples and scudding down into fingers and toes that seemed to pulse with every beat of my heart. Each morning I hauled myself out of bed, showered and dressed, and went through the day like an automaton. Lack of sleep left me fuzzy-brained and stupid. I couldn’t concentrate in class, or on my homework, or on anything anyone said. My chest was too tight to breathe, as if bound by great bands of elastic.

I began counting seconds in my head, starting from one, then up, each number relentlessly following the next, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, and on and on, sixty-five, sixty-six, sixty-seven, counting the seconds that Laika ticked away from me, drifting, untethered. When I lost count, I started again from one. At night I felt as if I were sinking into the mattress, or else floating above it. Exhausted, my body snatched moments of sleep before my mind dragged me back into the harsh landscape of consciousness.

And then my mind hooked on to Laika’s last birthday and stayed there. November the third. Her thirteenth birthday, that is. Not her last birthday.

It can’t have been her last.

***

In the early morning I’d slipped along the landing to her room and climbed into her bed.

“Shove over,” I said.

It was still dark. Sleepily, she pulled the duvet around the both of us and I drew her into a hug.

“Happy birthday, sis,”