Was it this box in her arm that was pushing open so many doors in her memory? What kind of creature was this book? She thought of Swirl’s little boy, the one who had died in 1942. He had been only a few years older than Sparrow but, unlike Sparrow, had never seemed afraid of gunshots, explosions, screams or fire. She remembered lifting his small body from her sister’s arms, and how the tears Swirl wept had seemed to burn Big Mother’s skin.
