A twig snaps in the clearing but Ave no longer has the strength even to twist her neck. She hears footsteps and her heart beats twice, for herself and for me, like a wing pushing through air, soaring on a final hope. She listens for the other sound, like those of a small bird treading warily over leaves.

A child, she thinks. Where have you come from, little boy? Are you lost?

The boy does not answer. He has approached as close as her feet, looking down at her inert body on the ground as if it too is just a fallen branch from a long-dead tree.

Come closer to me, let me see you.

The boy steps forward, so close to her face now she can smell the wheat stalks on his breath. He touches her wrist with his finger. About as tall as her waist, black hair matted with straw, no pants even.

Yes, I see you now, Zachariah.

Ave reaches out, places her forefinger against his pregnant stomach and frowns. Just like a woman in her third month. The belly’s pale skin gleams. She imagines a baby animal curled up inside there. Impossible.

Ave sees in his eyes slivers of jet streaked with creamy flecks.

Where have you been? Did you go to L-?

She offers the boy a bowl of soup.

He rushes for it, gulping down my strong pink stuff.

Three bowls in total she ladles for his hungry hands before the grip of it on him loosens. With a hollow croak he staggers forwards and vomits into the Midwife’s waiting jar.