On the TV’s screen an osprey descends in slow motion over the surface of a lake, its talons outstretched. As its wings move across the documentary’s stage, claws break the water’s glassy surface and an explosion of droplets ricochet off the bird’s white chest – like a superhero in a hail of machinegun fire. The bird’s body is momentarily lost in the commotion of water and light; it then rises with a single powerful wing beat. The prey twists silently, silver scales shimmering like chain mail as the water gradually recovers from its rape. Before the narrator has time to continue, the image collapses into blackness with a tingle of static. There is no school today. The boy sits deep in the sofa. Letting his hand fall onto a cushion he releases the remote, which bobs and settles between his leg and an open packet of crisps. In the hallway the dog raises its head and looks into the lounge; its face seems to be waiting for the answer to a question that might cause it to cry. The animal yawns and stretches its front legs. The pads of its paws fan out to reveal delicate tufts of white fur between. As its head lowers the dog’s nails play a percussive roll on the polished wooden floor. The whole house is bored. The sky is starting to darken and lights are already on in the house, though there are at least two hours to be killed before parents return from work. There will be a jangle of keys and questions that betray their inability to relate to this boy, this age. He is old enough to be home alone, to make himself lunch, to have his own latchkey. But his face is still that of the child that cried out for them on the first day of primary school and crept into their bed when thunderclouds pressed against the windows. Behind the television a fish tank burps and the boy releases his gaze from the distorted reflection of the room on the set’s screen. He walks through to the kitchen, followed by the dog, whose eyes are once again searching. He opens the refrigerator door and peels a slice of ham from a packet. The vacuum formed plastic feels sticky and smells sweet. The dog instantly sits and reaches his nose high into the air, as if sniffing blossom on an overhanging bough. The boy teasingly rips the slice of ham in two and throws half into the centre of the room, over the dog’s head. With a snap of jaws the morsel is seized mid-flight. The boy rolls the remainder into a cigar and pops it into his own mouth. The dog waits, ignored by the boy, who hoists himself up onto the worktop next to the sink. His legs hang and his heels rhythmically clack against a cupboard door with a sound that would earn him harsh words had parents been home. He drinks water from the tap with his hands and watches the liquid sparkle around the plughole. Wiping his hands on a tea towel, the boy shunts himself forward and drops back to the floor. He inspects a recipe book, left open on a page entitled ‘Sicilian Roasted Brill Steak with Anchovies and Capers’. He struggles to equate the words he recognizes with the garish, semi-focused image on the facing page. He flicks forward through the leaves and then back to where he started. Something moves. The boy’s eyes are suddenly alive as he turns to face the source of the sound. The dog is looking too, beyond the breakfast bar into the dining room. There is a round pine table with four chairs neatly pushed in. In the centre, a stack of wicker place mats look like pancakes beneath the large orange globe of a lamp that hangs low over the table on a sprung cord. Beyond, the symmetrical formation is reflected in large patio doors. A fairy-like shadow dances across the tabletop and then the sound comes again, like the rattle of hairgrips being scattered on paper. The boy glimpses a flutter of wings below the lamp before the moth settles on the inside of the globe, its silhouette projected onto the frosted orange glass. The boy creeps over to the table and curls his body to look up into the globe. The moth is still, with wings the colour of mushrooms and dusty fur covering its body. The boy reaches around and taps the shade with his nail. It rings and begins to swing slightly, the halo of light amplifying sway. Feelers twitch; first one, then the other, and the insect again takes flight, careering around the inside of the shade like a pinball. The boy retreats from the table without diverting his gaze; when his back touches the wall he slides his palm up until he finds the light switch. The room seems to change shape as the orange globe falls into darkness, its glow on the table replaced by arching shadows cast by the light in the kitchen. The moth leaves the globe and vanishes. The boy’s eyes dart back and forth, scanning the gloom. All is still. The dog returns to its spot in the hall. The boy is in the kitchen now, rummaging through draws. A minute later he flicks off the kitchen light and returns to the table with a burning nightlight cupped in his hands and held close to his face. He takes tiny, careful steps, as if he were carrying a baby bird. The flame pulsates as he walks and the shadows of his fingers become a burning forest on the walls. Placing the nightlight on the table, the boy takes a seat and cushions his head in folded arms so that his face is only inches from the tiny fire. Inside the foil cup the wax is beginning to melt and minuscule currents herd particles of soot into patterns on the liquid’s surface. The moth’s return breaks the boy’s concentration. He is bolt upright now, his arm raised ready to grab. The flame trembles as the boy’s movements tide through the air. The moth dances and then vanishes. It appears, falls and rises, as if trying to trace letters in the air. It is beautiful in the candle’s light, like a soft sparkler. Colours change and mix with a flash of abdomen, the glimpse of a wing’s underside. The boy extends his arm and snatches at the air again and again; he feels the heat of the flame on his wrist and then swipes a knuckle against the globe lamp. It rings like a gong. The boy freezes, considering his next move. The flame finds its equilibrium. Now only the moth is moving. The boy watches, concentrates, and then swiftly brings his hands together around the fluttering moth. He stares at his locked hands. He feels the silken tickle of wings on his palms; the sensation comes to rest in his stomach. The boy remains in this state for some time, unable to comprehend his prize – locked in his grasp it cannot be seen, appreciated. The moth has now come to rest in his palm. It is motionless. Slowly, the boy uncurls his fingers until his hands are flat, as if he were offering grass to a horse. The moth’s wings twitch and the boy is waiting, waiting to see if the moth will stay of its own accord.