In our game of flight, half-way down was as near mid-air as it got: a point of no return we’d fling ourselves at over and over, riding pillows or trays. We were quick to smooth the edge of every step, grinding the carpet to glass on which we’d lose our grip. The new stairs were our new toy, the descent to an odd extension, four new rooms at flood level in a sunken garden – a wing dislocated from a hive. Young bees with soft stripes and borderless nights, we’d so far been squared away in a twin-set of bunkbeds, so tight-knit, my brother and I once woke up finishing a conversation begun in a dream. It had been the simplest exchange, one I’d give much to return to: the greetings of shadows unsurprised at having met beneath the trees and happy to set off again, alone, back into the dark.