THE FIRST THING Dawn heard every morning was her brother stretching his wing. The soft whooping travelled down the hall and woke her from whatever doze or dream she lay in. Through the first bird-calls, or the wind hissing or the rain rattling or the traffic whining and rumbling on the distant highway, came the whoop and settle, whoop and settle, as Neddy worked the itch out, worked the cramp out, oiled the joints of the thing, before binding it to himself for another day of pretending it wasn’t there.

He made no other sound as he stretched it, no groan or yawn. And he kept that room as neat as a pin, with nothing loose to fall or fly about. Whoop and settle. Whoop-whoop-whoop-whoop and settle. She would watch the wall, or the lightening ceiling, or her own clutter, the knick-knacks from her children that would be swept off and smashed by such wing-beats here, the yarn-scraps that would whirl into flight all colours. She watched their stillness, and listened to the air being struck and stretched down the hall, and felt nothing in particular, not anymore.