I see if I can make Bruno pass out. I scratch his neck, looking for the itchy spot. After a couple of attempts, I do manage to make his head rise. Bruno’s eyes stare up at the sky, but then he suddenly turns and slips through my fingers. He skips round once and comes back for more scratching.

I try again. The scratching has to be carried out with just the right amount of force. If it’s too light, the head doesn’t go up; if it’s too heavy, Bruno will run off. I scratch; Bruno raises his head.

The fourth attempt is going well. Bruno’s brown head stretches up higher and higher; I scratch and scratch. And at last, unexpectedly, Bruno slumps to my feet, unconscious.

I stare at the passed-out sheep. His eyes are open, and you can see his teeth in his mouth, which gapes a little. A moment goes by, then Bruno comes to. He stands up, skips sideways, runs to a stone and back, then returns to me.

Don’t you understand anything, thicko? I ask in my head, stroking Bruno behind his wonky ear. But he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand, and he can’t offer comfort. He has a hard, bony skull, and nothing hurts him. I’ve heard that you can hit a sheep on the head with your fist, and all that happens is your knuckles get bruised.

Auntie Annu doesn’t wake up. She’s been asleep for two weeks now and has stopped eating the snacks we’ve been leaving her. She still drinks a little water. She seems to have sunk into a deeper sleep than last week. Her breathing is slow and even, and she doesn’t change positions as often as she did in the beginning. The doctor visits again, but he can’t wake Auntie up, either. He thinks she can sleep if she feels like sleeping. But in a week’s time, she’ll be taken into hospital for drip-feeding if she’s still not eating.

I’m a bit worried about Auntie Annu’s teeth. She hasn’t brushed them for days, and she’s eaten biscuits and jelly. If Dad remembered to buy xylitol pastilles, I could leave them out for Auntie, but he doesn’t remember anything.

I sit on the floor of the secret room. Usually, I sit here and think about the pieces of Mum, but this time, I pretend I’m walled in. This room isn’t surrounded by any line; this room is as free as a line between things. Here you can imagine you’re a white sheep stuck to a fence, preparing for a slow death.

‘Saara? Food’s ready.’ It’s Dad’s voice in the passage.

But the walled-in girl and the sheep stuck to the fence are so weak by now that they haven’t got the strength to answer.