THE MORNING AFTER: 2 AM

Two parallel realities. Here, and there. Here is a nondescript fibro cottage, surrounded by national park, set well back from a quiet country road. Three bedrooms, 70s-style kitchen, secure windows and doors. There: the concrete stadium and precinct, empty by now, next to Sydney’s largest parkland, walking distance from Surry Hills and Oxford Street, with their high-density housing. A complex, diverse area. Where to look first? What to think?

It’s all too easy to get in their heads. Confusion. Panic. Suspicion. Second-guessing. Is she sick, disoriented or just making a statement? Does she need help, money, medical attention or merely some time – to come down, or to come to her senses?

Time passing in slow motion.

Where is she? Her phone is dead. This is annoying. Hurry up, Bridie. We’re tired, we want to go home.

Something is wrong. She must be sick, or asleep, or under the influence. She must be lost or taken or hurt or angry.

What is happening now? How much do they know? Nothing, of course. They can’t begin to imagine. They haven’t been paying attention.