When God Was a Rabbit by Sarah Winman

That’ll make things easier,’ and as if prompted by his careless words, the first rumble of thunder rolled across the horizon, displacing startled birds and settled picnics as it went.
    The rain fell immediately. Large drops – nearly sleet – saturated the parched gardens and soon gutters were spilling over and the wash of dusty overflow filed down pathways and pooled in craters of mud. The sky lit up, one fork, and then another, lightning stabbing at the horizon between the fence of poplars. We saw Mr Harris run out to his washing line, too late to save his drenched jeans. We ran down the stairs and out through the back door, another fork of lightning – the sound of a fire engine. My brother reached into the hutch and pulled out my shivering rabbit.
    ‘About bloody time,’ said god as I held him close to my chest. ‘I could’ve died out here.’
    ‘Sorry about that,’ I said. ‘Really I am.’
    ‘Sorry about what?’ shouted my brother.
    Dogs barked three houses over and children danced screaming into the onslaught, laughing and awash with joyful terror. The thunder roared and shook the ground. Mr Fisk, at the back, ran out to secure a tarpaulin, its unruly edges billowing in the wind, wanting to take flight. And we stood in the middle of our garden, unsheltered, unprotected and looked around at the turbulence of the lives we backed onto, sat next to, the lives of the neighbourhood, and it shook clear our apathy until we saw again what our life here had been. There was the sledge our father had made, the one we took to school, the envy of all; and the ghosts of swings and climbing frames that had held us, and dropped us, the sounds of our tears. And we saw again the cricket and football matches that had scuffed bare the grass of the bottom lawn. And we remembered the tents we had made and the nights spent within; imaginary countries, us the explorers. There was suddenly so much to say goodbye to. And as the storm blew across and the first of the sunbursts lifted our corner of the world, there she was. Her face drenched, peering over the fence. Not smiling. As if she knew.
    ‘Go to her,’ said god.
     
    ‘Why?’ she asked, pulling the towel away from her face. The clock ticked loudly in the silence. She stared pitifully across the kitchen table, and I longed for my brother to reappear, to bring back the recognisable into this scene of disquiet. My chair felt hard. The orange squash, too sweet. Our ease, now awkward. Nothing was the same.
    ‘Why?’ she asked again, tears instantly appearing in her eyes. ‘Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?’
    I couldn’t answer her.
    ‘Is it me?’
    I felt my throat clench.
    ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘My mum and dad said we have to.’
    ‘Where are you going?’ she said, gripping the rabbit so tightly, he started to struggle.
    ‘Cornwall.’
    ‘You may as well be dead,’ she said, and let god fall to the floor.
    ‘Fuck,’ he said, and scuttled under a box.
    She slumped forwards, rested her elbows on her knees.
    ‘What about Atlantis?’ she said. ‘And all the things we were going to do?’
    ‘It could be in Cornwall,’ I said. ‘Maybe we’ll find it there.’
    ‘It can’t be in Cornwall,’ she said.
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Because it can’t. It has to be a place that’s ours . Can’t you see that? Not something that’s everyone else’s,’ and she began to stamp her feet as rage overtook her, a rage my brother had so often felt when playing with her. It was an excess energy born of the dangerous, an energy that could unexpectedly turn play into war.
    ‘Don’t leave me, Elly,’ she pleaded. ‘Please don’t,’ she said again. ‘You don’t know what’ll happen.’
    But what could I say? I reached out my hand. The gesture crass and dramatic.
    ‘I really love you,’ I said clumsily.
    Pathetic.
    ‘No you don’t!’ she shouted. ‘You’re just like everyone else,’ and she got up and ran.
    I followed her to the back fence, shouting her name,