cry.
He was eleven months into his life and a glass bottle had just gone off like a gunshot about a metre from his head, and his mother had made a noise, and four adults had gone rigid.
And he leaned over the side of the buggy to look at the floor, interested, and then held the giraffe out.
Towards the mess. Towards nobody in particular — the way they do at that age, offering you the thing they are holding because something has happened and they do not know what
