with your own sweat. Her father pissing high into the bracken, his yellow urine arcing through the silver rain. Which was the kind of detail a mother would leave out, of course, when speaking to her daughter. Carmel wanted to tell her about the wren – whatever that story was. Some kind of warning. About staying safe. About not hitting the light bulb with a broom, when you are waving a dead mouse around. She closed
