“Do you ever think about how easily we die?” I ask. “What on earth are you talking about?” Cora sounds a little nervous. “Have I ever told you about my parents’ death? We were in a carriage quite like this, and I remember how prettily the sun shone on my mother’s hair. I tell people I don’t remember the accident, but I do. I remember all of it. I remember being flung about like a flag in the wind—I remember the smell of the cows as they ran on all sides of us, like shit and grass—I remember the shattered glass that sliced through us all, like needles all over my skin—I remember the warm bath
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