Mum steps forward. David gives her a hand up to the platform. She unfolds a crumpled piece of paper, it flutters in her hand like a wing. She looks up at the crowd in front of her. We stand, candles raised, like devotees, and I see a flash of fear in her eyes. She looks quickly down at her notes again.

She stammers on the first two words and, unlike David, keeps her head lowered, eyes fixed on the page in front of her as she speaks.

“I met my . . . I met my friend Meg when we were both young single mums to gorgeous little girls. Neither of us thought we’d be on our own with small daughters, struggling to pay the bills. Meg moved next door with her daughter, Grace, to escape a violent and dangerous man. We became close immediately. Our girls loved playing together, they used to pretend they were sisters.”

Mum pauses. Her eyes trace the crowd; I think she might be looking for me. I stand on tiptoes, will her to see me but she doesn’t, so she looks down at her notes again.

“I remember the first time I saw Grace have a seizure, years ago. It was shocking and I felt completely useless. But Meg knew exactly what to do. She calmly held Grace’s arms by her side so she wouldn’t hurt herself. She soothed Grace until the spasms ended. Afterwards, when Grace was in bed, I got upset. I’d never experienced anything like it, never seen firsthand what it means to care for a sick child twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. And when I asked her how she coped on her own, she said simply, ‘To me, Grace is perfect just as she is. I will love her and care for her come what may.’”

Mum pauses, closes her eyes to swallow. As she says the last few sentences, a dramatic crack runs through her voice; it sounds as if it’s running through her whole body: “That was Meg in a nutshell—she was all love and care for others. I have no doubt Meg protected Grace with her own life when she was brutally attacked two nights ago, and now we owe it to Meg to do the same. I promise my best friend, Meg, I will not rest until we find Grace. Come what may.”

There are a few slow, self-conscious claps; people look around, unsure whether to join in or not. Mum’s crying again. David pats her shoulder and then hugs her. The cameras pop. David helps Mum off the makeshift stage. I move forward and take her hand, squeeze it because I can’t hug her now I’m holding a candle.

“Was that OK?” Mum asks.

“They would have loved it,” I say, meaning it, and Mum smiles. We both bow our heads as the local vicar moves to stand where Mum just stood. “Let us pray,” he says. And as I listen to his words about love and faith I close my eyes and see Grace laughing beneath a beanie hat, her cheeks pink with joy, and then the pink becomes blue from the lights of the ambulance that so often came to take her away, as though even the smallest sip of happiness would make Grace sick.