“Ah.” Lettie nods. “That was Lana’s favorite.”

“Was Lana your daughter?”

“Yes. She was.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died.”

Lettie’s very still. Not looking at anything. Not moving to make a cup of tea, or wiggling her toes, or scratching Splinter or any of the other things she does when we’re sitting. I look down at the book in my hands and wonder if it’s rude to ask how someone died. Or if maybe I should just start reading. I open to the first page.

“She was eleven, I told you that.”

I nod and slip my finger in to mark the start, not sure if she’s going to keep talking or if I should. She’s still staring: her face hangs, mouth drooping from gravity rather than frowning. She’s staring somewhere over my left shoulder. I turn and check. Just the door. I look back to the words on the page.

“It was flu. You wouldn’t credit it, would you? Kids are supposed to be resilient by eleven. I thought she was improving, all her symptoms were improving. Then the fever came back with a worse cough. Rest, fluids, Panadol—everything they tell you to do. Nothing worked and by the time I called the ambulance it was too late. You’re always made to feel like a bit of a ninny when you rush your kids to the hospital with a cold or flu, like you should just buck up and stop being so high maintenance. She seemed to be getting better. I thought, ‘Oh, a little relapse—she was up and about too early is all.’ ” Her fingers pick at the checked wool of her pants, teasing out some fluff. “She was burning up, so hot she was delirious. So I called the doctor. They said he’d come around when he was done at the surgery. But then I called the ambulance anyway. I knew she wasn’t okay. I should have called them earlier. They asked me that too. Why didn’t you call us earlier? Doesn’t matter what you do, it’s wrong. First lesson.” Her fingers leave the wool to pick at each other. “Last lesson too.”

She looks at me. “She loved books.” Her eye twitches, a little flicker over so fast I wonder if I imagined it. “I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of them.”

I twist around to look at the books on the porch behind me, getting more about Lettie in that second than I have the whole time I’ve known her.

“What about your son?”

She smiles. “Not so much. Chris was never much of a reader. He liked building things.”

“No, I meant—”

“Oh.” She nods. “You mean what about him in all the dying.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“It wasn’t a happy house after that. His dad left. I left too, really. I was here, but . . . not. I couldn’t leave but I wasn’t really there. I held on to him too tight and not tight enough. Held on because he was all I had left, not because of him, and he knew it. He studied hard, went to uni in Sydney and never came home again. Couldn’t get out fast enough. Can’t really blame him for that.”