The Smokie Shed is made from tarry black planks, splintery and weathered. The half door is open only a fraction. Dinky is on her side. I can see her belly and legs and something slithery and bloody at her tail. Dad shouts for Mum again, she’s up in the house with my little brother. Dinky snuffles and rustles in the dusty straw. I’m so worried about her that I take the wee silver ball out of my dressing gown pocket, instead of the hard sweetie I got from Granny last night. Dad shouts again. The ball rolls down my throat, metallic and seasoned by animal sweat and dust motes.