‘You’re Lorna Miller?’ the registrar asks.

‘No,’ says Dee, placing a hand on my shaking shoulder. ‘She is. I’m her sister.’

Everything feels weird and slow. I’m under warm water and all I can feel is baby Reign’s warmth against my chest and the weight of Dee’s chubby hand.

Dee’s voice becomes urgent. ‘Come on, Lorna.’ She reaches to take the baby.

‘NO.’ My arms lock in one tight muscle and the whole room widens its eyes. ‘Just … give me a second.’

In one swift ‘pulling off a Band-Aid’ movement I get to my feet.

The registrar smiles. ‘It’s okay. Registering a birth isn’t an interrogation. Just a bit of form-filling.’

Dee puts an iron-bar arm around my shoulder. I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster – the part where the ride starts and you can’t get off.

The registrar leads us into his office. There is a UNISON mug on his desk and a half-eaten Trio bar beside it. Two segments left. Trio bars are a peculiarly British sort of candy; too teeny-tiny to ever be popular in the States. I feel homesick, suddenly, for giant Charleston Chew bars.

‘The father couldn’t be here today?’ the registrar asks. ‘Or …’

‘There’s no father,’ says Dee.

My hands make fists around the baby.

There are chairs either side of the desk – sort of like a police interview room. The window overlooks a half-empty parking lot and a green fir tree.

I drop into the chair, feeling baby Reign against my chest, our heartbeats finding each other – hers like a fluttering leaf, mine like a tribal drum.

‘So you have your forms with you?’ the registrar asks.

‘Here.’ Dee shoves our envelope to the registrar like it’s a biting animal. Her hand drops on my shoulder and I feel she’s shaking too.

The registrar opens the folder and flicks through. He makes a clucking sound. ‘You’ve cut this very fine. If you’d left it any later …’

I nod, but my throat is too tight to reply.

Then the corners of the registrar’s mouth drop down. ‘You’re only seventeen. You have some support here, do you? Your mother?’

‘She’s in the States,’ I say. ‘And she’s not much of a support wherever she is.’

Dee manages something like a laugh, but her hand is still tight on my shoulder.

There is a pause, then the registrar says, ‘You had a home birth?’

I nod, my voice leaving me again.

He squints at the form. ‘And your sister …’

‘She … uh … witnessed the birth.’

‘Yes,’ says Dee.

‘It was just the two of you at the birth? The father—’

‘He’s not in the picture,’ says Dee.

The registrar hesitates for a moment, and I can tell he wants to ask something else.

This is it. The part where I break down and lose this baby …