I really didn’t know what to expect when I picked this up. A story about racing, a car, teenagers, perhaps. I was wrong, and it was far better than I expected. This isn’t a book about a car or an object, it’s a book about loss: the way different people move on, and others never do. Retold by Robbie’s mother, this is a single evening in the life of a family torn apart. At first this seems to be the story of the loss of a teenage boy, but it unfolds into far more, the consequences of a single decision, and the endless parade of losses that life is.

Written in first person, her point of view is raw and poignant, painted with slow careful strokes by the author. This isn’t mis-lit, with no angst or self-pity, though she has more than cause enough. Just growth and regret that rings painfully true. Touching on the expectation that parents must be near psychic, the demands of her injuries, and the balancing act between remembering the dead and losing touch with the living, her voice and loss are clear and self-aware.

Anyone who has lost a loved one may find this cuts too close, from romanticising little moments, guilt over tiny things that can’t be changed, and the survivors’ guilt that drives someone left behind to wish they had died instead.

Four stars. Literary fans should love it. It was close to a five, as a perfectly crafted short story.