I walk around the side of the house, the gravel track between bushes where we keep the trash bins, and I lean against the hard stone of the house. My chest is caving in. I’m dying. It’s taking me.

No, I’m panicking. This is a panic attack. I know because I’ve experienced it before.

I wasn’t a mother then. I had no one to look after, not even a dog. It was just me and my guilt and Gran calling to check on me, not giving up, the phone ringing and ringing.

Breathe.

Okay. I do. I straighten. The stars that have gathered in my vision dance away, and I keep going, skirting the oldest, roughest edge of the house, hiding from the reality of the back garden. From up on one of the ledges, a carved face leers down at me.

“Nina?” I hear Jo’s voice behind me, not shouting but insistent. “There you are.”

I take another step, instinctively fleeing, before I remember myself and turn.

“Someone needs to tell her parents.” She’s following me along the gravel path, limping heavily. “I’ll look after the children.”

The two statements don’t seem to connect.

“Yes, of course, they’ll need to know,” I say. “What happened?”

I nod to her ankle, noticing she’s not putting weight on it.

She grimaces. “Twisted it coming out of the kitchen just now. It’s nothing. Stupid.”

I turn to stare numbly at the crowd scattered around the lawn like refugees. “Who do you think would be best? Who are they closest with?”

Avery’s parents live west of the village above the beach where the puffins roost, a house with green awnings they roll out when it’s sunny. They still have a play set in their small back garden, even though Avery’s their only child. Maybe they kept it there in hopes of grandchildren.

I blink hard, staving off a rising tide. “Brian lives two down from them, doesn’t he? But he’ll need to see to the … the body.”

“It has to be you.”

I’m knocked dizzy by the chosen one fervor in her voice.

“You or Hugh, but I don’t think he’s coming down. You tell me.” She nods irritably to an upper window.

The study. When I step back, I can make out my husband’s outline between two thick curtains, his arms bent like the window frame is keeping him from falling. Does he know everyone can see him? Does he care?

“This is the tradition, then.” I lower my voice. “One of us visits loved ones after people die? Nobody told me. There should be a manual.”

The panic tightens in my chest, like fingers closing.

“It’s not that complicated, Nina.” She brushes her hands off on her hips. “Your life is easy for seven bloody years, and then you step up. For one day. Can you manage that?”