The playing fields were deserted following the summons of the bell. A curious sense of abandonment engulfed her, as though the world had whirled away without her and she would never catch up with it again. She might survive for centuries in a time warp, waiting for a car that would never come. She had inherited her father’s stocky form and dishevelled appearance, and whatever she did with them her clothes always looked crumpled. Sarah began to sing, trying to keep unease at bay. She was a sturdy girl with a round face and hazel eyes, small for her thirteen years. Singing helped to push worry or loneliness away until she could no longer feel them, and she knew that she was a natural singer. Sometimes she sang songs that other people knew, but often she composed secret words and melodies just for herself. It was like flying, never knowing if you were going to swoop or soar on the next phrase, or land on one of those long, satisfying notes that you recognised as the perfect ending. But this particular song, Sarah realised, was refusing to resolve itself. She paused to imitate the call of a golden oriole, perched in the wattle tree at the edge of the drive. His responding whistle pleased her, but he refused to prolong their chat and disappeared in search of insects. She liked to talk to animals. Smiling to herself, she made several grunting noises in an imaginary conversation with a warthog.