Three plastic barrettes jut from Eily’s mouth. Bathroom light humming in the dawn, she coils her plait around and around into a silvered-black bun at her nape. Her teenage son, Cassius, stands behind her, watching her in the mirror, covering one eye with his hand, then the next.
Is that what you’re wearing to town, Cass?
Yes.
Shouldn’t you wear jeans, or tracksuit bottoms, instead of your football shorts? You’re a big lad now.
No.
Well, tie back your hair neatly and go eat some muesli, so. Don’t put too much in the bowl. Don’t forget to screw the lid back on good and tight.
