Sarah and Patrick had been friends for over 50 years. They were  party animals, and were physically similar: not tall, not thin, both struggling against the lure of cakes and ale. They were both inclined to idealise those they thought were above them. Patrick put his faith in the leaders of the institution in which they both worked, thinking that they were honourable and well-intentioned. But they were Dementors in disguise, glowering like bull-frogs in a swamp, crunching whatever gossamer creature flew into their orbit. As he did, to his cost. To assuage his sense of humiliation, Patrick lurched from one expensive hobby to another. Sarah was inclined to hero-worship those she thought were cleverer than her, but all her idols turned out to have feet of  clay. They liked looking at themselves in long mirrors, and they thought that being in a relationship was like crossing items off on a shopping list. The symbols of Patrick’s past were discarded guitars, surfboards and motorbike leathers: Sarah’s symbol was a pile of large empty cardboard boxes, which emitted a grumbling sound.  

In one way they were not alike, though, and that was in the intensity of their focus. Patrick was like a humming-bird, hovering with his long beak and sipping the sweetest flowers in swift array. Sarah, on the other hand, had the concentration of an oyster. She remained ferociously attached to her rock like a mollusc, fashioning her own pearl. She could be very single-minded. 

Be that as it may, they held each other in extremely high regard. Everything went swimmingly for many years, and then Patrick began to sicken. His pallor, his nausea, his fatigue indicated a malign presence in his body. Death was like a sniper, after all, hiding round a chimney stack or in the Book Depository.

What to do? Sarah had an animistic  belief that certain objects were healing nostrums, and she had a little collection that she carried with her at all times in a tapestry bag: a small jewel-like painting of a woman being loved, a starfish pendant, a figurine of Jo March. And most important of all, the porcelain egg. It was the same size and shape as a swan’s egg, with a marble-like patina. It was white, but in certain lights it became pink. It was still, but in certain circumstances it would tremble. It was cool, but when you held it in your hand, it became hot. It was her Precious.

Sarah decided that these were the conditions of total emergency, and that she would have to sacrifice the egg. It was hope, it was birth, it was new knowledge, it was transformative. She gave it to Patrick, with strict instructions on how to use it, touch it, think about it. And it worked. After some time, his pallor lessened, and a slight flush mantled his cheek. He moved with more vigour, his pain went away. Who knew how long the reprieve might last? But for now, the egg had worked. And if it cracked open at last, there  might be a different world inside it, to wonder at.