‘Do not go gentle into that good night,’ Jamie began, hesitant. Mrs Farr was known to eject people from the classroom if they didn’t put the pauses in the right places. ‘Old age should burn and rave at close of day.’

And as she continued, I was imagining. Daydreaming. Day-nightmaring.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right …

The silhouette of a man. Slumped against a giant redwood so tall that its peak disappears in the milky clouds, branches melting into indigo. Only crickets.

… because their words had forked no lightning they …

I can’t see his face, but I will soon; moonlight is flowing in from behind me, as agile and quick as a fire, and when it dances up and on to his face, I recognize him.

… do not go gentle into that good night.

Dad’s eyes are closed, limp, and I go to reach for him, but something’s pulling him down, into the tree roots. Hands yanking and tearing and I can’t get to him in time, and he’s dragged deeper, deeper, deeper …

‘And you, my father, there on the sad height,’ Jamie read.

I swallowed.

‘Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.’

The spit caught in my throat.

‘Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.’

Mrs Farr let the words settle, and then turned to me. ‘Sydney,’ she said. She was going to ask what my interpretation was. Seemed slightly cruel to call on me, but whatever. I could feel Olivia’s eyes on me; I think she knew something was wrong before I did.

I chewed my lip. It was obvious, I thought. Not just obvious, but something I could actually get behind: not succumbing to death. Telling the Grim Reaper to fuck off. Don’t go without a fight. Rave and burn. Rage. But Mrs Farr didn’t ask for my interpretation. ‘I don’t think there’s a better poem for you right now,’ she said. ‘I thought you might want to use this time to talk about your dad.’

And then I left. I just left.

I couldn’t believe I was doing it while I did it. My feet started moving before my brain told them to. Or maybe my brain told my feet to move before telling me what exactly was going on. Either way, I was leaving, apparently.

Mrs Farr called after me, but I kept going. Slammed the door and everything. A scream gurgled inside me.

Rage, rage.

I made it to the front of the building before anyone tried to stop me. ‘Excuse me!’ the woman in the office called. I kept going.

I straddled my bike and shot out of the parking lot.

Rage, rage.

Right on Main Street. Left on College. Past the baseball fields, down the hill.

Twelve along, four down.