The neighbourhood in Montreal that Margot was raised in was an Eden of sorts. In its parks and parkettes children could be seen splashing around in cement swimming ponds while their gentle but firm Pilipino nannies watched from a distance. The houses possessed old world charm – as well as some severely cracked driveways, rotting garages, and recurring plumbing issues. It was the kind of neighbourhood that was rich in everything except for money, and though some residents were bothered by this, most of them forgot. Margot’s family belonged to the latter group.

Not once in her childhood had Margot ever heard a gunshot. What she heard through her bedroom window were bouncing basketballs, skateboards clapping on pavement, friendly barbeques, and a symphony of lawnmowers. The most violent sound Margot might have heard growing up would have been the strike of a tennis ball, overworked parents (slightly) losing their patience with their kids, or the siren of a firetruck heading to a neighbourhood far away from her own.

For the first seven years of her life Margot did little, besides fondly staring at birds or adding to her rock collection. It was hard to have a conversation with Margot, she was a pretty spaced-out kid, liable to put her hand onto a painting in a museum or chase a ball into traffic.

She preferred to play alone, which other kids her age found bizarre. Despite being marooned in her own little world, Margot was actually a lot more tuned in than others realized. She had enough awareness to recognize that she was different from other kids her age. The fear and discomfort that accompanied this thought made her continue to play alone and collect way more rocks than she needed.

It was just a matter of time (Margot believed) before her non-conformity would be discovered and her life at school would become a living hell. The girl who first noticed Margot’s strangeness was the daughter of her mother’s oldest friend. The girl was – fitting for the situation, some might say – pretty strange herself.