““And there's the happiness, again. Flickering, moth-like, just under her sternum. She presses a hand up to the place. If she could leave the embered blackness behind her eyelids and travel to the spot where feelings are made, perhaps she could farm the right ones. She has recently become attuned to the way Dad takes the temperature of her mood and attempts to chart it... Every night before bed, he says, 'Three happy things?' It's pretty easy. There's always weather of some sort: sun, snow, rain, wind. There's food - her favourite cereal or a nice pudding. And one other bit of happiness, which can be absolutely anything: clean sheets, a book, one of Dad's ideas - it doesn't matter whether the idea will actually happen, the optimism dominoes from him to her, regardless.””
