unregarded, or is broken, Adam and I will live on in memory.
Carly was to be my book.
And I have ripped it to pieces.
History repeats itself.
I am tired and need sleep, a small death at the end of each dayâs life. Lucy summons Jane, who is on night shift this week. She helps me to my room and prepares me for bed. I used to be ashamed of this help. Now I am too tired even for that.
Carly will not come back.
âNow you sleep well, my dear,â says Jane. She tucks me in. âDream of that man of yours. That Adam.â
I do.
CHAPTER 10
T HE DREAM IS AS sharp as memory.
It is memory.
I pick up Pagan and carry him to the back of the shed. His weight makes the muscles in my arms bunch and cramp, but I do not drop him. The world is made of water. Sometimes, lightning casts everything in silver. The farm is monochrome. My dream is monochrome. Except for the splashes of red that badge my dress and stain my fingers.
I find a shovel from the barn. I dig. Eventually, I tuck my dog down and blanket him with mud. Then I kneel at his sodden grave. Adam wipes my hair from my eyes. He doesnât say anything. I try to pray, but have no words. They stop in my throat. After a while, Adam leaves.
I do not know how much time passes. I am empty and cannot feel the rain on my skin. Lightning flashes, but I do not really notice. Thunder makes the ground pulse, but I do not really notice. My head is bowed. Time passes.
When Adam puts his hand on my face I turn my eyes to his. He is not wet. His hair shines, even in the darkness, as do his eyes. They flash silver in the storm.
âCome see, Leah,â he says.
âWhat?â I say.
âCome see.â
He takes me by the hand and raises me to my feet. He twines his fingers inside mine, leads me from the grave. I follow.
Inside the barn, the air is solid. It smells of rain and death. Adam leads me through the darkness. We stop just beyond the hulks of old farm machinery, rusted mementoes of a dying era. Though the dark is hard against the eyes, I see pale patches on the floor.
They are lined in rows, ghostly rectangles. I kneel on the floor and bend towards them. Pages. Curled and damp. Hundreds of them, some in soggy clumps. Others fluttering limply at their edges, stirred by the storm.
âI collected them,â says Adam. He kneels beside me. âI donât know if I got them all. Probably not. The wind was vicious. Still is. You wouldnât believe how far some of them had flown. I found one or two at the edges of the orchard. Soaking wet. I â¦â I touch him on the arm, though I donât look up from the drift of paper before me. He stops talking. My mind is in a strange place. It wrestles with the image of a dog, a blinding flash of light and the smell of burning death. Yet it also considers the pages laid before me, the jumble of story, wet and curled. There is a beginning here. It snakes with the promise of vitality from an ending. Life comes from death. One story ends and another begins. It is too much to reflect on and I am too young. I touch a sheet. The tip of my finger tingles.
There is another small explosion of light on the edge of my vision.
Adam has found my secret store of candles. They were tucked beneath sacking, a few stubs of cold wax, a half-empty box of matches and a chipped saucer. The flame writhes against the draughts, battles against the night. It steadies and when it does, the darkness has been pushed back a few meagre centimetres. It is enough.
Print marches across white space. Words resolve themselves. âI know I found the opening page,â says Adam. âItâs here somewhere.â He searches through the mottled pages, gently lifts a sheet to avoid damaging it, puts it carefully back on the barn floor, picks his way through a carpet of story, wary where he places his feet. He mutters in disappointment, continues his search. I reach out and take a page â any page â from the pile before
Carly was to be my book.
And I have ripped it to pieces.
History repeats itself.
I am tired and need sleep, a small death at the end of each dayâs life. Lucy summons Jane, who is on night shift this week. She helps me to my room and prepares me for bed. I used to be ashamed of this help. Now I am too tired even for that.
Carly will not come back.
âNow you sleep well, my dear,â says Jane. She tucks me in. âDream of that man of yours. That Adam.â
I do.
CHAPTER 10
T HE DREAM IS AS sharp as memory.
It is memory.
I pick up Pagan and carry him to the back of the shed. His weight makes the muscles in my arms bunch and cramp, but I do not drop him. The world is made of water. Sometimes, lightning casts everything in silver. The farm is monochrome. My dream is monochrome. Except for the splashes of red that badge my dress and stain my fingers.
I find a shovel from the barn. I dig. Eventually, I tuck my dog down and blanket him with mud. Then I kneel at his sodden grave. Adam wipes my hair from my eyes. He doesnât say anything. I try to pray, but have no words. They stop in my throat. After a while, Adam leaves.
I do not know how much time passes. I am empty and cannot feel the rain on my skin. Lightning flashes, but I do not really notice. Thunder makes the ground pulse, but I do not really notice. My head is bowed. Time passes.
When Adam puts his hand on my face I turn my eyes to his. He is not wet. His hair shines, even in the darkness, as do his eyes. They flash silver in the storm.
âCome see, Leah,â he says.
âWhat?â I say.
âCome see.â
He takes me by the hand and raises me to my feet. He twines his fingers inside mine, leads me from the grave. I follow.
Inside the barn, the air is solid. It smells of rain and death. Adam leads me through the darkness. We stop just beyond the hulks of old farm machinery, rusted mementoes of a dying era. Though the dark is hard against the eyes, I see pale patches on the floor.
They are lined in rows, ghostly rectangles. I kneel on the floor and bend towards them. Pages. Curled and damp. Hundreds of them, some in soggy clumps. Others fluttering limply at their edges, stirred by the storm.
âI collected them,â says Adam. He kneels beside me. âI donât know if I got them all. Probably not. The wind was vicious. Still is. You wouldnât believe how far some of them had flown. I found one or two at the edges of the orchard. Soaking wet. I â¦â I touch him on the arm, though I donât look up from the drift of paper before me. He stops talking. My mind is in a strange place. It wrestles with the image of a dog, a blinding flash of light and the smell of burning death. Yet it also considers the pages laid before me, the jumble of story, wet and curled. There is a beginning here. It snakes with the promise of vitality from an ending. Life comes from death. One story ends and another begins. It is too much to reflect on and I am too young. I touch a sheet. The tip of my finger tingles.
There is another small explosion of light on the edge of my vision.
Adam has found my secret store of candles. They were tucked beneath sacking, a few stubs of cold wax, a half-empty box of matches and a chipped saucer. The flame writhes against the draughts, battles against the night. It steadies and when it does, the darkness has been pushed back a few meagre centimetres. It is enough.
Print marches across white space. Words resolve themselves. âI know I found the opening page,â says Adam. âItâs here somewhere.â He searches through the mottled pages, gently lifts a sheet to avoid damaging it, puts it carefully back on the barn floor, picks his way through a carpet of story, wary where he places his feet. He mutters in disappointment, continues his search. I reach out and take a page â any page â from the pile before
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