– 7 –

So one day Emily’s down there by the trees and she looks at that bit of cling wrap — like I’ve said, it’s one of the last things left — and it’s wobbling in the wind.

And it reminds her of how she used to look at space.

There’s something in it that makes her think of the way things used to be, back when there was something more to the world than the house, and the woods, and the chaos, and that bit of blue and seamless sky.

It wobbles in the wind, that bit of cling wrap, and it makes shapes for her, and it reminds her of the old and wild space; of a sky that was of more shades than blue.

Of stars and stones.

Of the jaguars, and the scissors, and the saints.

It’s like it’s all still there. It’s like it’s all still in there, and real, on the other side of that little bit of film; but she walks around it, once, twice, thrice, and it’s the same from either side.

So she takes off her hat, and she hangs it up —

I guess maybe that’s to mark her home.

And she walks out into the waste beyond the edges of the world.

“I’m gonna get them back,” she says. “All those errant children in the sky.”

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