We’re sitting at the very back, but he’s holding me up high enough so that I can see over the heads. There are probably around a hundred people in front of us, all sitting in rows like black crows on telephone wires.

And there’s Wesley. The one inside the coffin with the shards of the camera still wedged inside his chest.

That camera had been my Christmas present last year. Dad gave it to me because I’d started to see the walls and he wanted to give me a window. At first, he would just go on adventures with it strapped to his chest, filming things for me to watch later. But then he discovered Stream Cast – a streaming site with a private channel open only to me, where I could log on any time through my laptop and watch the world Living live. And there was something magical about that.

Wesley was my first streamer. He worked with Mum at the school down the road, and she convinced him to live-stream his commute in the morning. Then Dad got my cousin Roy involved, who was born the day after me and plays a lot of computer games. And Dad met a friend at tae kwon do who takes me training, and my old babysitter, Hana, streams all the way from Tokyo, where she lives now.

But Wesley was always my favourite. When I was with him on his bike, it was like I’d banished the Illness and I was Living fast. I saw pheasants bursting out from bushes like feathered rainbows, and rabbit tails bouncing like ping-pong balls into burrows. I saw crops reaching up and flaming, until whole fields were ablaze with yellow fire. I saw puddles turn into rivers turn into wide lakes, the water as many different colours as the sky.

I did my very best Living with Wesley, so it does feel like this is my funeral somehow, too.

If this were my funeral, though, I suppose Dad wouldn’t be sitting at the back, the camera he’s holding up receiving angry stares.

A man who I think is a priest stands up at the front and starts talking. I can’t hear what he’s saying because we’re too far away, but it’s probably about how Wesley Lived his life by the clock and how time does seem to have stopped now he’s no longer Living.

If he were talking about me, it’d probably be about what I was like before the Illness came and took me, because people do seem to find that easier to remember. He’d be talking about me as if I died at ten, when I went on adventures with Dad, won that trophy for breaststroke, ate aniseed balls by the bag, listened to music at full blast and wanted nothing more than to be a marine biologist one day.