This time Oliver’s edited together a clip of his sister Sabine in a cherry-red tutu doing a pirouette with the caption: She forced me to send this to you! The next screen has butterflies, unicorns and hearts. She made me do this too! Cut to a new screen: Seriously! I’m laughing now. The video jumps to him in his mum’s store, holding up my favourite brand of almond butter, super smooth, and spooning a big dollop into his mouth with a grin. I’ve saved you a bite, the caption says. He holds out the spoon to the camera. The frame freezes. The end.

He’s the best.

I send him a clip back—me waving, my father driving and the snowy forest scene outside the car window. I add a bunch of animated stars, not nearly as cool as his. I’m careful not to film Jaxon in the back seat—don’t want Oliver to get the wrong idea. Anyway, he’ll never meet him so it’s kind of irrelevant.

Lucy also texts asking how I am, and I tell her all about the wolf mum and pups.

I think I’ve lost my mind! she writes.

What? Why? I ask with a thousand question marks.

Malcolm liked all my posts, every single one, and so …

I wait with bated breath while Lucy types.

I direct messaged him! Told him it was fun at the gala and asked what he’s been up to.

OMG! Did he reply?

Literally one second later! He said, not much, and asked what I’ve been up to.

Riveting conversation. I add a winky face.

Ha ha. I told him my parents are dragging me to the antique fair this Sunday. Get this—he said he may be going too.

Coincidence?! What are you going to do if you see him?

Die?

And you say I’m dramatic, I write.

I’ll keep you posted. Going to make tea and then better try to sleep.

I imagine Lucy in her bedroom, her sketches sticky taped onto the old pea-green paint. Walking downstairs to her kitchen to make tea. Her house is super messy, but in the coolest of ways, like a musty country-town antique shop full of treasures: piles of books, watercolours, African masks, and feathers in jars. Even her father, Mark, is cool in a quirky way. He did his PhD on a bird in Botswana, the fairy flycatcher, which may be the best name ever for a bird. And Lucy grew up partly in Africa, so her accent is a bit unusual.

I send her a moon and stars, and wish her luck.

Paula sends a pic of her tummy and I blow kisses to the little peanut, my soon-to-be cousin. I want to feel Paula’s belly and make her tea. Being so far away makes me sad. I know my messages will only reach her tomorrow when she wakes up.