Luca hits the dog on its head, who yelps helplessly, looking towards the sky. It still hasn’t worked out where we go when we climb up the trunk of the tree; as far as it can see we disappear into the clouds. It’s been around as long as I have, which must make it very old in dog years. ‘Senile old nutter,’ Sergiu would say, as he’d give it its tenth whack of the day with his pointed boot. We’ve never given the old hound a name. My brothers all laugh when I suggest it. ‘It’s an animal, a creature, an “it”, and that’s that, silly sis’. Mama reckons the boys were knocked on their heads when they were little, or jostled about too much when they were growing inside her. I think it’s because they came out just like Papa, except for Luca, who is more like Mama and me, although he tries very hard not to be.

‘Where is your little friend today, sis?’ As if he doesn’t know. He follows us to the river most days and hides behind a bush where he thinks we can’t see him.

‘Just who are you talking about, donkey?’ I’ve arranged to meet Maria later at the watering hole, at the same time we meet every day during the summer holidays.

‘Do you think she likes me?’

He’s asking for it now. ‘She doesn’t even know you exist.’

He shakes the branch in a fury so I’m on the edge of falling.

‘Stop, you castrated bull!’

He laughs. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll catch you on the way down.’ The dog’s anxious grunting increases. ‘Stupid yoke,’ he says.

Of the three boys, Luca has the bluest eyes, the thickest hair and the smoothest skin. Although he’s the youngest, he’s also the tallest, with wide shoulders, narrow hips and a taut body. The girls in school giggle when he’s around and wear high colour on their cheeks. Maria’s no different, although I’d never tell him this. ‘Come swimming with us today.’ The words are out of my mouth before I can pull them back. Maybe it’s because I know there are only five more days left before school starts, or maybe it’s because I want the shaking to stop.

‘Ok,’ he says, as if he doesn’t care.

An image of Maria and Luca alone together floats out of nowhere, gaining substance until it’s hard and solid, hitting me in the chest, leaving me breathless.

‘I can see up your skirt,’ he shouts, conceding nothing.

There is a silence, until I realise he has started climbing back down. I let go of the branch I was clinging to and spread my arms wide. Look: no hands! The sky is piebald blue and white, and I am trotting, cantering, galloping along the plains.