Soli pulls the boys into a sit. They’re in front of the doll. She’s placed it on the floor in front of them. Mouse is uninterested, he attempts to stand. He’s tugged back.
‘I have to tell you something about it. It’s really important. It could be the key to getting out of here. We have to believe that.’
‘Okay.’ Tidge nods.
His head is wide open but Mouse’s alarm bells are going off, he’s squirming, wants escape. He’s the cynic of the family, the watcher, the survivor; he’ll make a good critic, you laugh. Aged six he asked if we made God or God made us then declared he knew the answer — us — and you applauded his rationalism and encouraged it.
Soli now places any stray hands she can get onto her knees, attempting to corral all the skittery thinking. ‘Dad said I have to tell you to look at the doll, to help us.’
Yeah, right, says Mouse’s wriggle.
‘He promised he’ll come back and get us. And when we look at it, we always have to remember that. He promised me.’
But there’s a fierceness in those last three words that sits her brother up straight.
If even a dog’s tooth is truly worshipped it glows with light.