“Come down,” Laika called. “We’ll get into trouble.”
My cousin lurched to the side of the branch and I gasped. Laika squealed.
“Ha, ha,” he said, “got you.” His brothers laughed.
“Hey,” he shouted, “there’s a bird’s nest up here. Eggs, baby birds too. They’ve got their mouths open really wide. They’re all like, squawking. They sound exactly like Laika.”
“Come down,” my sister called again, her voice small and reedy with fear.
“All right,” he said, “keep your knickers on.” His brothers laughed. The ball plummeted toward us and then bounced off the grass in a hard shock, flying back up to fall and bounce again. Max caught it on its third bounce and stuck it in his pocket. Then I watched in silent terror as Angus edged his way back down the tree. Eventually he made it to the lower branches, scrabbled his way down the last parts of the trunk and jumped to the ground.
“Welcome back,” Max said. “How was your trip?”
“Fantastic,” Angus said. “I got you a gift.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled something out. He opened his hand. Dwarfed inside his palm was a single, tiny, speckled egg, the brightest, palest blue I’d ever seen, the color of an April morning sky. Laika’s small face became bright with wonder. The egg was so perfect. She held out her hand and Angus tipped it into her palm. She looked at me, her little mouth opening into an o of delight, then back at the egg.
“It’s warm,” she said.
“That’s because it’s alive, stupid,” Freddie said. “It’s got a bird in it.”
“Who’s got a penknife?” Max said. “Give it here.” He plucked the egg back out of Laika’s hand. “Find something sharp.”
Freddie and Angus kicked around by the base of the tree, picking up small sticks and discarding them. A small dread filled my stomach. I looked up at the house.
“Can I see the egg again?” Laika asked.
“You can see something better than that,” Max said. Angus had handed him a small, sharp-edged stone.
“Don’t,” I said. “You shouldn’t do that. Put it back.”
“Do what?” Laika said.
Above Laika’s head, Max began tapping.
“What are they doing?” Laika said to me. She looked up at the boys, wobbling on tiptoe as she tried to look at the special blue egg. “Don’t break it.”
“Don’t,” I said. “Stop it.”
“Don’t be such a girl,” Freddie said; “this is science.”
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.”
