The shed was used for smoking Finnan Haddies, decades and decades ago, when our house was still a fisherman’s cottage. Now the shed is dark and deep with straw and we keep out donkey in it. We didn’t know she was pregnant, but she’s given birth to a foal. Dad has shut the half door to stop me seeing the bloodiness. The foal will be called Matchbox and he will be okay. The seagulls on the roof sound panicky, like me, because I swallowed a wee silver ball instead of a sweetie, and I’m going to die.