it was a book. The book was entitled Deconstructing and Rebuilding Care, and it was wedged face down in the branch of a tree, at a height I could just about reach if I jumped. By some bizarre coincidence, it was a book I’d heard of though I’d not read it. A colleague at my former workplace had recommended it to me. It had come out the year before last and hadn’t sold at all well, but had made waves among those in my former field of work. As far as I could see from looking up at it from below, the book was well thumbed, and there were lots of little paper tags poking out of it. I looked around
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