Kiri.

The whole kakapo people, the entire world's worth, doesn't add up to three hundred. A bit over two hundred and thirty, spread across four islands. They fit in a notebook, and they really do fit: each one has its name written down. Kiri knows the list by heart and doesn't think it's any great feat. «I know the list. All of it. It's no great feat, love — there's two hundred and thirty-four of you.» It's the kind of fact a kid grasps right away and an adult takes a while to believe.

When someone is born, Kiri counts «one, two, three» very quietly. They're three breaths in a row from the newborn, and until all three come she doesn't sit down. Nobody on the island knows she counts them. She gives instructions one at a time, in a low voice, and to calm someone down she lowers the volume instead of raising her tone.

She's still got plenty of road ahead. A kakapo lives around sixty years on average, and some individuals might pass ninety, a longevity that's extremely rare among birds. Kiri is forty-seven: exactly the halfway point.