“Do you see that branch?”

“Which one?”

“The one that looks sort of like this,” she makes a little claw with her right hand, two fingers clasped down and the other two and thumb fanned and twisted. I roll my head around, so that the back of my ear just about touches the grass, to see. I try to make the same shape with my own hand, and look back up to try to match my own fingers with the trees. I don’t see the branch.

“I think so. Yes I see it.” I don’t.

“At the end of that branch. On the thumb. Shaped like a sort of pear cut in half. That one’s my favourite.”

“Really great choice,” I say, “really fantastic leaf.” I still don’t see it. But I think it’s my favourite nonetheless.