As he sits in the woods he recognizes the impulse that rises up in him as he scans the trees, the unquestionable certainty that any second now, Aurelia will walk through the clearing with her camera in one hand and a handful of pine cones for the baby in the other. She’ll be smiling, her face flushed with whatever new scene she’s managed to snatch with her lens. The sun will rest on her blonde hair that trails behind her in gold waves.

Instead, the small figure of Gaia reappears then through a prism of trunks, running towards him with something cupped in her hands, and the re-realization that his wife is dead, that the sweet, innocent girl bouncing towards him will grow up without her mother, rains down on him like a shower of burning oil.

‘Look, Daddy! Look!’

In a moment she is there, breathless from the run and excitement, and he sees what she has found: a baby bird, about three inches long, fuzzy-headed, eyes bulging out of livid red skin, legs hooked like claws.

‘Is she dead, Daddy?’ Gaia says, panicked.

She allows him to scoop the nestling gently from her hands into his own, warm palms, where he inspects it closely. One tiny eye creaks open.

‘No,’ he tells Gaia. ‘Not dead at all. Where did you find it?’

She turns and points in the direction of the woods. ‘By that tree.’

‘On the ground?’

She nods. Coco seizes fistfuls of his sweater to haul herself to a standing position, then reaches over to pluck the bird from his grasp.

‘No, Coco!’ Gaia yells. He tries to jerk his hand away from Coco but she manages to plant a heavy hand on its head, prising a small but distinctive ‘cheep’ from its mouth.

‘Did she hurt it, Daddy?’ Gaia says, her eyes glistening with tears, and before he can reassure her she throws a fierce look at her sister. ‘Naughty Coco!’

‘Ma-ma-ma,’ Coco answers happily.

‘It’s still moving,’ he says, turning towards a shaft of bright sunlight to inspect the bird more closely. ‘He looks very tired. I expect his mum will be looking for him.’

Both he and Gaia raise their eyes to the canopy above, as though a mother bird will appear, searching for her lost chick. When no such bird appears, they turn their eyes back to the helpless creature in his palms, which is now opening and closing its beak as though making an effort to talk.

‘We should get her something to drink,’ Gaia offers. ‘And perhaps some food. I can look for worms. Should I look for worms, Daddy?’