My dog is a drink lake. He drinks
whenever he wants. The lake
is in the corner of the garden.
It is three miles deep which is
deeper than the Gulf of Mexico
or the Bering Sea. At night, my
dog swims to the bottom of the
lake. He sees toothy creatures
in its depths but they pay him
no notice. As he swims, he
drinks fresh water. Let’s Get
Started Shall We? My dog is my
own. My mothers rescued him
when they knew something was
wrong. My dog lives dog years.
I am nine and my dog is seventy-
two. He has lived twelve lives
which I have imagined for him.
My dog eats food prepared by
my mothers. He drinks from
the secret lake. During the day,
he sits on my legs. My breath
stops as I wait for them. All
the brothers and sisters who
never came. Beside me are four
wringing hands. Can You Hear
Me? The Therapist smiles. He is
trained in Speech and Language
at the Royal College. He leans 
forward, his elbows on his
knees. He never seems to adjust
his glasses. I Am Going To Switch
This On Now OK Ryan? I try to
say something but I can’t. A
laptop on the table is recording
a video. Its red eye notices me.
I look down at the Alphabet
Board which the Therapist
has pushed into my hands. I
dislike how it feels. The cold
plastic will not compost; it will
sleep on the bed of an ocean,
the letters crusted with sodium
and fish-scales. My mothers
sit together on their chairs like
two birds, watching. Mummy’s
eyes press against those of the
Therapist. Mama is still waiting
for me to speak. The Therapist
asks a question and I hear my
mothers’ voices, their usual
words: Medicine Normal Stop
Not Coping. I grip the Board.
My neck tightens but no sound
comes out. The continental
plates rub together and displace
themselves, causing water to
rise. A vertical motion inside of
me. If I stopper it, press down,
it will be worse. The formation
of a tsunami does not depend
upon the gravity of the
earthquake: a small trembling
can cause waves to rise from a
depth of five thousand metres.
Ryan Are You OK Burn, bite,
blood, spit, innards. Too bright.
Ants squeeze under the door,
they climb up my arms in their
thousands, fingers twitch, the
Board releases and hits the
Therapist right below the ear,
everyone is talking a gurgling
sound rises in my throat tsunami
pressing against my intestines
pull the cable the laptop cracks
on the floor hands grabbing
people shouting now stamp
stamp, I stamp on the Board
and scream.

*

It is important to understand
about the zones of regulation.
Blue is sad, bored, sick. Green
is happy; Yellow, worried; Red,
overjoyed, terrified. There are
no other zones. The problems
begin when the amygdala asks
the hypothalamus for help,
without any shame whatsoever.
The hypothalamus commands
the sympathetic nervous system
which fills my body full of
prehistoric liquid. The brain
can be calmed by encouraging
the corpus callosum to better
tie Left with Right. Juggling is
helpful.

*

I lie in bed between my mothers.
Mama pulls my hair and I like
it. Like hair-pulling. Corpus
callosum. I love her and want to
take the sad out of her fingers.
That Man Is Terrible It’s All
Unproven No Control Groups Even
Let’s Stay Positive If He Doesn’t
Improve We’ll Try Something Else
Mummy reaches over to look
at her phone. She has to go to
work soon. She strokes Mama
and Mama strokes me.

*

Mummy is a gynaecologist.
She looks after seas of people
urgently and also calmly. She
protects the central caverns of
life. In the mornings, Mummy
sleeps. She is often speaking on
her phone in the evenings. She
has a gesture, a habit of holding
up a finger, like a Roman in
Corinth, the finger tilted gently
in the direction of its receiver,
which is me. The finger tells me

On Tuesday, my dog goes
missing. My mothers take turns
to drive around the streets.
They staple posters to the
trees and get in touch with the
Authorities. Each night they try
again. They do not think of the
lake. Did You See Him Go Ryan?
Mummy’s voice lilts upwards.
My mothers meet each other
from the corner of their eyes. I
try a Ger sound. Like a torrent
of snails; the sound oozes from
the sides of my mouth. My
mothers move closer as if to
catch the falling snails. When
nothing else comes, they turn
away.

*

Mama is ill. Her face is red with
sweats. She brushes a watery
stream from her nose and wipes
it on her dress. I Do Not Have
Time For This Mama lifts food
packages into the car. She pulls
them from the trolley in threes
and fours and juggles them
across the open space to safe
sanctuary. Another bottle of
wine. Too much. She lets out
a small Oh as the wine bottle
smashes on the concrete. I want
to help, let me help. Too late for
that. Mama leans against the car
and bows her head. I hold her
hand. A moment passes. Then
she squeezes mine.

*

It was me who opened the door.
I like the click of the night
latch. Open shut, open shut—
even though I shouldn’t. I must
have left it open and now my
dog has gone. It has been three
nights already. My mothers
cannot contain themselves. Late
in the evening, they grasp each
other on top of the bed. You
Remember What The Educational
Psychologist Said It Is All I Think
About What Will Become Of Him
Kate? The System Is Completely
Broken I place my ear against
the banister and knock on the
wood. The knocking sounds like
a question. The bed responds
with a creak. I run downstairs.
This time, I run outside—I run
away.

*

Outside, dark. My mouth makes
squeaks and the night birds
answer. They too are unable
to sleep. My dog! I shout in my
mind and the birds explode
from the trees. At the bottom
of the garden is a small fence,
I climb over it easily. My limbs
creak and groan but the water
soothes them. My arms are
already submerged and I let
out a single cry—a cold, clean
note. The vibration feels good
in my chest. I dip my head
below the lake’s surface and
kick my legs. The water is dark
and glutinous. I am scared now
but I push downwards into
the tangles of kelp; I have to
break through. My legs splash,
somehow my body cannot right
itself. I remember that I cannot
swim. Not far away, the birds
are singing. My body slackens.
A great wave. A movement in
the world above. Hands grasp
and pull. Someone is with me
in the water; I am being pulled
up from both sides. An ending
to a baptism. A moment later, I
hear the sounds of my mothers.
They are shouting to each other
but not at me. I feel sorry. I want
to tell them, Sorry, sorry. But
they are not angry, just scared.
Inside, they wrap me in towels.
Their silence rings in my ears. I
did not find my dog. I open my
mouth and close it again. My
throat squeals.

*

The next day, I sleep later than
usual. After breakfast, we go
for a walk without my dog. My
mothers encircle me with care.
I release myself from their
protection and jump six times.
My mothers walk on after me.
They find each other’s hands.


In the afternoon, Mummy goes
to work. The house is quiet.
I am sitting on the rug with
Mama. Her arms are relaxed.
The Alphabet Board is next to
us but Mama does not look at
it. I Am Mama She looks out of
the window and taps her fingers
on the board. M–A–M–A. I press
my toes against her toes. She
does not stir. You are Mama. The
frightening Board hangs from her
hand. I am still scared. But I cannot
be. Her beautiful eyelid droops. My
throat tightens. I squeak. I reach
out and tap. Y–O. My mother
looks down at the Board. U. She
says nothing. No inward breath.
A–R–E M–Y.

*

Yes, she says.

*

Her eyes widen. I tap the letters
again. A–R–E M–Y. She rolls
over and squeezes me. We
become one organism, a single
animal, locked together. A
flow of proteins and neurons.
The sun splashes through the
window and onto her face, but
the muscles are quiet. She is
listening. Somewhere outside, a
dog is barking.

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