She had been off in Australia, and quare places after that, for about twenty years. She only came home for her parents’ funeral. Carbon monoxide poisoning, like the canary in the ad. There was no carbon monoxide poisoning long ‘go ‘cos there was plenty draughts in every house.

She was short and thick, with dry, bloodshot eyes and skin as white as the belly of a fish. Even when she was crying—which was often—tears rarely came. She’d rub the backs of her hands into her eyes until they reddened, and if she ever did tear up it wouldn’t last long. She did this a lot, this dry-eyed crying and eye rubbing.

So, a child is like an investment, you see? First you establish a partnership with your other (spouse, mate, lover, etc.), and then you start saving. And you save and you save until you feel like your partnership has established a foundation—both an emotional foundation and a financial foundation—that can support a child.

The toy surprise at the bottom of the cereal box turned out not to be a fidget spinner or packet of magic markers, or miniaturized plastic batting helmet, but a message in a bottle, a very small bottle, formerly a bottle containing Tabasco sauce, and now containing the scrawled missive of an unknown madman.

“I guess we should talk about Leander.” She’s cute in a ruddy cheeked, outdoorsman sort of way. Not the type of woman I picture with my husband.