Sistenzca is retching up a crow. Bones stick-thin in the mouth, threatening to snap. Greasy black taste of feathers. When it’s all done, she kneels exhausted on the bed, sweat-damp hair clinging to her back, and stares at the new animal. The crow, spit-shiny and confused, labours over the bedclothes towards the window. Mallory makes a note of the time. Third one today.

The crow sits upon the sill and puts its feathers in order. Sistenzca watches.

"Mal?”

“Yes?” Mallory is scratching something else in her notebook and only sort of looks up.

“Is it going to stop?”

Mallory finishes writing. Tucks her notebook away; gives Sistenzca a tired smile. Sistenzca half-smiles back, shakily, out of habit. She’s a nice girl like that, Mallory has come to understand. The kind that tries her very hardest not to be difficult.

"Why don't we keep reading your book, Sistencza? We can pick up where we left off.”

Scratch of claws on stone. A complication of wings. The crow flies out into the pale grey sunlight.

“Okay.”