Ayesha smiled, and Maria stared at her. The passport was on the table still, and she had her left hand on it, as if she was worried it might be snatched. She was leaning forward, and Ayesha thought again how thin, small and frail she looked – the rucksack was huge beside her. Kristin’s guitar stood in the corner, and the case was dusty. Inside was the instrument itself, bought for his eleventh birthday, because he had borrowed a friend’s and learned a number of chords, so he clearly needed his own. He deserved his own. She had heard him once, at an early stage of the process, practising a song in his bedroom – his unbroken voice surprisingly sweet and in tune. She had made him record himself, and the recording… she had it, and could play it easily if she ever wanted to. So far she never had. The most unbearable thing, or one of the many most unbearable things, had been the disposal of his possessions – the shoes that had kept his feet safe and warm, and the coat with some particular shopping story attached… the coat he’d wanted and argued with his mother about, because it wasn’t strictly right for school, but he wanted it if only because it wasn’t strictly right for school. And he’d got his way – the indulged, spoiled, over-loved Indian son. Over-loved, and thus forever tempting fate. Don’t show your love, for the gods will be jealous of it. They will destroy it, out of spite. But how could you not over-love Kristin, who lived so entirely in the loving present? He brought electricity into the room, and left everything charged. She had under-loved her brother, whilst their gran had simply not been able to face the world without him. Without his love, there was no world, and it had slowly stopped spinning.

Her own was darker now. It really was as if a light had been turned off, the switch removed from the wall.

She felt a hand on her wrist.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Maria. ‘How old was he?’

‘Thirteen.’

‘Thirteen? Oh…’

For a moment, Maria looked stricken, as if she couldn’t comprehend the horror of such a loss. Ayesha nodded, and the hand remained, its grip a little firmer.

‘Do you have brothers, Maria?’ she said.

‘I have four.’

‘Four?’

‘I am the oldest. There are seven of us.’