when I came out of there I was soaked in sweat, and the light was at its earliest and dimmest, and I was a man - white shirt, casual suit jacket. It took me a while to find my bearings but after pressing through the gaps in a couple of rough hedges I was there again, in the garden by the pergola, and there was the child. I was shocked that she was still holding up those paint cans - had I really left her there all night? She was damp too, with dew and with sweat patched over her stretched-out singlet dress. Her arms were shaking hard and her hair was stuck to her temples. I walked to her. Her eyes didn't shift. I took the paint cans from her and set them down. Don't move your arms too fast, I said as I did this, thinking she would drop them to her sides or hug herself, but she kept them out, her hands loose as though dead, and the arms slowly rose, jerking sporadically, like she was a bird coming in for tight landing.

Where's your father? I asked.

She whispered something, and I had to lean close to hear it. He's gone to town, she said again, dry as a leaf.

I grabbed the hand closest to me and took the weight of the rubbery fingers across my palm. And then I touched her elbow, held it, shifted so that her whole forearm rested on mine, and placed my other hand across her shoulder blade, cupped it. She tilted in to me, her face against my solar plexus, and gasped. But I had forgotten the other arm, and as it convulsed I could only catch it roughly, and hold her there like I was trying to keep a scarecrow from collapse.