I took a deep breath, and followed.

We squashed down some grass to sit on, near where the newer gravestones are. There were the three Wetheral graves, all in a tidy row. Not overgrown like the others, but clean and neat and tended.

She put her fingers either side of my head, just above my ears. “There are little muscles up here. Can you feel them?”

I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be talking to her. I shouldn’t be letting her touch me. She’s dirty.

But running away wasn’t going to make me a hero, was it?

“Kind of,” I said.

“Everyone’s got them, we’re just not used to using them. Try and move my fingers. Go on – try.”

My shoulders moved. My eyes moved. My mouth and my nose moved. Everything moved apart from the bits I was supposed to be moving.

“I can’t.”

“Course you can. You just need to practise, that’s all. Here, put your fingers where mine are – that’s it – then try and move them. Do a little bit every day. The muscles’ll get stronger.”

I tried again, with my own fingers there this time. Still didn’t work.

We sat back against the wall.

“How old are you, Maggie?”

“Eleven,” I said. “How about you?”

“’Bout the same, I s’pose.” She pulled up a long piece of grass, twisted it round her fingers. “My dad doesn’t take much notice of stuff like that, so I’m not too sure.”

Not too sure? How could you not know how old you are?

“Have you got a birthday?” she said.

“Course. Fifteenth of November. Everyone’s got a birthday.”

“I haven’t. I’d like one, though. Hey – maybe mine could be the fifteenth of November too.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. It fell straight back out. “S’months away, though. Maybe I’ll make it sooner. How about this week?”

“It’s my brother’s birthday this week. Friday.”

“Well, I’ll have mine on Saturday then. No, Sunday. Leave a day in between. Yes. It’ll be my birthday on Sunday and I’ll be eleven, just like you.”

We had our legs stuck out in front of us. Una’s were way longer than mine – more like twelve-year-old legs than eleven-year-old ones. Maybe even thirteen. She tapped the toes of her wellies together while she talked.

“Can we meet up here,” she said, “me and you? On Sunday? We could, y’know … do whatever it is you do on birthdays.”

I s’pose you wouldn’t know what you do on birthdays, not if you’ve never had one.

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, all right.”

She wanted to see me again.

I was doing it. Me, Maggie middler.

I was catching a wanderer.