Sundays were when the world ended

You can't be gallivanting round the neighbourhood all week, says Sylvia. Turn! He turns the egg timer on its end; sand falls through the tiny eye. He's timing Sylvia's hair: thirty turns of the egg timer then she rinses out the dye. Roots are tacky, she said.

He sips his apple juice, thinks about smashing the glass, letting the sand pour out on the table. There's nothing to do, he says.

Only the boring get bored. She touches a drip on her neck. Anyway, you're helping your old mater.

What's a mater?

Turn the timer. Me, your mother.

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An itchy, Sunday sort of question rose in his throat. Why don't I have any brothers or sisters? The sand stopped trickling.

Well, it just never turned out that way. Her answer had unhemmed edges.

But we might run out. We might become extinct.

Sylvia stared at him. What the hell have they been teaching you?

It's better if there's more of us, in case we die.

We're not going to die, Federico.

He takes another sip, flushes the juice round his mouth. A sudden pressure builds in his nose like dynamite. He sneezes. Juice sprays from his mouth like a burst pipe, covers the air, then the table. Sylvia's face goes red. Her head doubles over and her body shakes. He realises she is laughing. And he laughs too. They fall down the day's stretched neck.