The pillow was mine. I asked for it at breakfast, and asking first is the rule. It is the old feather one, and it is the only pillow in our flat that goes cold. Everything else had given up days ago — the taps, the door handles, the inside of my own ears. Dad carried the deckchair up the fire escape. Junie carried the pillow, which I did not like at all. "Tonight," she said, "I'll swap you for it." "No." "You haven't heard what for yet."