The rock is shiny and smooth on one side, and grey and jagged on the other. It's very sharp. Where she's been hitting the fence post there's a big patch of fresh-looking bright yellow wood. Like a bite out of an apple. The rock is a flint, I'm sure of it. Mum showed me one once. You can use it for fires.

As we're on our way to the cows, I tell the girl this and she looks at me like I'm stupid. She holds it up. It's a bit of old stone, she says. You can't start a fire with a stone. You need wood. She says this like I'm so stupid that I'm not even worth the time to talk to, and I makes me so mad that I grab the stone out of her hand and throw it into the bushes. Hard. So that she won't be able to find it even if she looks.

She blinks at me. Then huffs and turns around and keeps walking. Head in the air. Faster than before. I'm not sure if I'm still invited, but I follow her anyway. I want to see the cows.