CHECKESS

Ms MacGillivray is staring, one eyebrow arched. She has her hands behind her head, pinning her ponytail flat against her skull. The bruise on her right bicep looks like a tiny swirling galaxy. Her teeth are clamped around the butt of a Bic pen.

Mr Varzani – YOLO program coordinator, student-exchange evaluator, guest of Mother Terroriser (Ms Mac has a new derby name) – is also staring, eyes enlarged by thick yellow-tinted lenses surrounded by bold black frames. The Sussex High visitor pass on his shirt pocket is upside down. His pencil hovers over a clipboard.

Both are waiting for an answer to their question. I pull a loose thread from the school crest on my sports shorts.

‘I’m enjoying the experience,’ I say, quoting the YOLO video I watched last night to prep for this. ‘I’m trying to make the most of every day, soak it all in. I’m not the same person as when I started, that’s for sure.’

Mr Varzani puts his pencil and clipboard down and applauds. For a split second, I think it will become a standing ovation. ‘That’s brilliant, Munro! That’s the sort of spirit we love, right there!’

‘Thanks, sir.’

‘Call me Craig.’

‘Okay, Craig.’

Ms MacGillivray takes the pen out of her mouth. ‘How about your mid-term marks, Munro? How do you feel about those?’

I tip my hand back and forth. ‘They’re not great, but they’re about the same as I had back home. No worse.’

‘You think it’s the best you can do?’

‘It is what it is, miss. I think it’s the best I can do in difficult circumstances. The language difference here is a killer.’

Craig squints, scratches his ear, then loses it as the joke hits home. His laugh is how I imagine the mating call of a lonely moose.

Ms Mac gives a thin smile. She closes one eye, taking aim again with her guidance gun. ‘You in any of the music programs at all, Munro? One of the bands?’

‘No.’

‘Percussion group?’

‘No.’

‘Male choir, perhaps?’

‘Only if you want it shut down.’ I sit up straighter in my seat. ‘I’m more of a sports guy.’

‘Well, I see you haven’t joined any sports teams either.’

‘Nothing really stood out.’

‘Cricket?’

‘It’s got a million rules and I know maybe three.’

‘Rugby?’

‘I think I’d rather stay alive.’

‘What about field hockey?’

‘Too difficult in my skates.’

Craig moose calls again. I’ll cut out the jokes from now on.

‘I’m not against joining a sports team, miss,’ I add. ‘It’s just that my volunteering is sucking up a lot of time this term.’

‘You don’t have to do all fifty hours before Easter. You’ve got next term, too. Today is 8 March and you’ve already completed –’ Ms MacGillivray shuffles some papers – ‘twenty-eight hours. So, you’re on track to finish by Week 9! What’s the hurry? What exactly are you doing there, Munro?’

You’re still hiding, aren’t you, Munro? That’s what you’re doing. Still thinking you’re safe there. But I’m getting closer. I will find you.

Maybe today?

Seems like the perfect day to bring you out of hiding.

I briefly describe the Living Partner role. I tell them about the Straya Tour (I don’t say it’s named after me) and our field trips: South Bank, Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary, Bribie Island, the Glass House Mountains. I introduce my team and their latest news: Bernie’s still considering names for her clothing line, Iggy has completed a third of his Infecto comic, Flo just taught her first self-defence class, the power couple of Blake and Dale are now calling themselves ‘Blale’, Shah’s still sleeping most of the time. Much of the info is over the heads of my audience, but I don’t care. Just so long as they get that I prefer volunteering at Fair Go to learning cricket.

‘Wow, I remember at the start you didn’t want anything to do with the place,’ says Ms Mac. ‘Now, you’re talking like you’re never going to leave.’

‘Pay’s good.’

‘Funny.’

‘I’m not gonna lie. I like it there.’

She opens her mouth to respond, but is blindsided by her YOLO sidekick. For the first time in the meeting, Craig’s ’tude is something other than over-the-top cheerleader.

‘That’s wicked, Munro, but we don’t want your volunteer gig being a downer or a bummer for everything else at school,’ he says, pushing his bumble-bee glasses further up the bridge of his nose. ‘The sweet zone of a student exchange, as you are aware, is contributing to the host family and school.’

‘Do you feel Fair Go is being a downer – or perhaps even a bummer – to everything else?’ asks Ms Mac.

I lean forward and point to one of the stats on my mid-term report. ‘What do you see there, miss?’

‘Your attendance? It’s perfect.’

‘That’s right. I haven’t missed a day yet.’

‘Just turning up isn’t contributing to the school, though.’

‘It’s a big improvement from back home. I ditched at DSS. Now, I’m a changed man. Do I look like the sort of student who would bail on school? Craig?’

‘No student living the true YOLO spirit would dream of such a thing.’

‘Word. I am nothing if I am not living the true YOLO spirit.’

This is all the reassurance Craig Varzani needs. After a glance at his watch, he apologises, says he must get back to the office. He vows to keep in touch.

‘You da man, Munro Maddux,’ he adds. ‘I can see great things ahead for you.’

Ms MacGillivray escorts Craig to the door. As it closes behind him, she twists her mouth and puts her hands on her hips. Mother Terroriser might now be in charge.

‘Thanks for not telling him about the other stuff, miss,’ I say. ‘The scrums. The freak-outs. Did I forget anything?’

Ms Mac scratches her cheek. ‘I think you covered it.’

‘I’ve kept my nose clean the last two weeks, though.’

‘You have. Indeed, you are “da man”, Munro Maddux.’ She sits down and grabs a stress ball from her in-tray. She leans back, tossing it from hand to hand. ‘You’re getting better, and Fair Go is playing a big part in that, for sure. But you can do more than just volunteering and turning up, mate. Don’t be satisfied with better. Go for best.’

I wipe my sweaty right palm on my shorts and nod. ‘Don’t you mean “best-er”, miss?’

Caro waits for me at the lockers.

‘How was it?’

‘Fine. How are you for time?’

‘Still got about twenty minutes left of lunch. What did they say?’

‘Nothing much. YOLO guy was a goof. Ms Mac thinks I should step up.’ I open my locker, remove the math textbook from my bag, replace it with a single thin folder. ‘Do the trains west go every half-hour or every fifteen minutes?’

‘Fifteen minutes.’

‘Perfect.’ I close the locker door. ‘How long’s it take to get to the station from here if you run?’

‘What’s with the questions about the time and the trains, Munro?’ Caro’s hair-trigger smile, for once, misfires. Her lips stretch. Her face darkens. ‘You wagging?’

‘Is that the same as ditching? If so, yes, I’m wagging.’ I hastily add, ‘But I’ve got a good reason.’

Coward.

I retrieve the folder from my bag and hand it to Caro. She starts reading the info. ‘Shah – that’s the guy you’ve been worried about?’

I nod. ‘We’ve done, like, four field trips now and I still haven’t been able to get anything out of him. He sleeps when we’re on the bus or the train. When we’re at the place we’re visiting, he wanders around with a scowl on his face, keeping his distance from the group, only speaking when he has to. The residents are on a rotation for the tour; they decide the places we go, but he won’t choose a place.’

‘So, you’re going to go see him now?’

‘Yeah. He always has Wednesday afternoons off from his work in the residence. I think if I spend some time with him outside of this tour business, that’ll give me a better shot at making some progress.’

Caro closes the folder and hands it back. She’s weighing up my rationale, turning it over like an unsolved Rubik’s cube. Caro is serious about school – I learned that about her right away. She’s real smart, works hard. She wants marks good enough to go to college and study law. Then she’ll practise in human rights or the environment or some other area of standing up to the man – she hasn’t quite decided yet. She wants to help the Shahs of the world.

She wants to help herself, too. Put the past behind her, including whatever her mum’s asshole ex did. We’re on the same page, Caro and me. It’s just that our books are different; hers is a school text and mine is … I don’t know what the hell mine is.

‘You know Maeve’s auditioning for The Addams Family today,’ she says. ‘We can still catch it.’

‘She doesn’t care if I’m there or not.’

‘You could help her care if you showed up. Might help with Digger and Renee, too.’

I scrunch up my face. ‘You saying I’m the one who needs to smooth things over?’

‘Wouldn’t hurt.’

I check my watch. ‘Look, I’ve got better things to do than suck up to those guys. Like practising chess. That’s what Kelvin said I should try with Shah. I’m gonna play chess with him.’

Caro sighs, adjusts her wristbands. ‘You do remember they take roll in the afternoon, don’t you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So you’ll be marked absent.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And they’ll contact Rowan’s fam about it.’

‘Yeah, they send an automated message.’

Caro looks down her nose. ‘It’ll take more than your cute accent to talk your way out of that.’

‘I have a plan.’

A group of younger students, probably Grade 9s, swarm the lockers nearby. In voices louder than intended, they’re whining about the end of lunch and the start of an English class that isn’t ‘keepin’ it real’. One boy, a walking goalpost in a droopy uniform and a worn pair of workboots, wonders how reading Oliver Twist can possibly help him get his ‘sparky ticket’, whatever that is.

‘I should go,’ I say. ‘Don’t suppose you want to come with me?’

Caro scoffs at the unvitation and squeezes my elbow. ‘You better run if you’re going to catch the 12.57.’

Caro sees through you.

She’s a good person. She knows when people are really doing something to help others and when they’re only doing it to help themselves. She knows what you’re up to.

You can’t hide, Munro.

Not today.

I settle back into the thin-cushioned seat of the 12.57 train, put my feet up opposite.

A long line of freight cars fills the window, each one covered in graffiti tags: NEXST, SNAFU, DOOM, TRAGIC, GEKO! One detailed work features a hooded figure walking a tightrope; the pole they’re carrying for balance has a globe on one end and a miniature of the hooded person on the other. The caption underneath reads ‘You decide’.

You haven’t answered me for days, Munro. Did Ollie tell you to do that? She’s stupid if she did. You can’t ignore me. I’m the Coyote.

You can’t ignore the people at school either. You think you can run away and no one will find out? They will – of course they will. Then what will you say? Will you tell them why you’re running to Fair Go? How you’re terrified of the voice in your head? Especially today?

Are you going to tell them?

Answer me, Munro!

ANSWER ME!

It’s around 1.50 pm when I ring the bell on the reception desk. Kelvin wanders out from the back room, stapler in hand. We ask the same question of each other in stereo.

‘What are you doing here?’

Kelvin responds first. ‘I’m covering the front desk for Laura while she’s on lunch. And you? You here for more hours?’

‘No.’ I lower my bag to the scuffed floor, wipe my hands down the front of my Sussex High shirt. ‘I’m here for school.’

‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’

‘I am. We have to do a series of interviews with a person of migrant background as part of our diversity project. If it’s okay with you, I thought I’d talk to Shah.’

Kelvin puts the stapler on the desk, readies a thin stack of paper, smacks the stapler like he’s playing whack-a-mole. ‘Diversity project.’

‘Yes.’

‘That would be in … Social Studies?’

‘Modern History, actually.’

‘And you have to interview someone of a different race or ethnicity?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not a gay person? Or an elderly person? Or someone living in poverty?’

‘No.’

‘Not someone with a disability?’

‘I guess it’s two for one with Shah. But, yeah, the question was pretty specific.’

Kelvin starts complaining about ‘hierarchies of difference’. I nod at the end of each sentence. This is going well. Kelvin’s on a rant that doesn’t include the crime of ditching school. I’m glad I didn’t go with the extra hours angle.

‘So, it’s okay if I talk to Shah then?’ I ask at the end of the speech, after a suitable, respectful pause.

‘You should know by now, Munro, it’s not my permission you need.’

Kelvin picks up the front desk phone, dials a short number. He waits and waits. And waits. He starts singing the theme song to The Big Bang Theory.

After at least a full minute, he says, ‘Hi, Shah, sorry to wake you … You have a visitor … Munro Maddux … Munro, your Living Partner … Well, he’s sixteen – I wouldn’t call him a “boy” … Yes, he’s here … Yes, it’s Wednesday … Yes, it’s not the usual time … He wants to do an interview with you … An interview … For school …’ Kelvin holds his hand over the phone. ‘He’s thinking about it.’

I bend forward, rest my elbows on the counter. Not going quite as well now. The idea that Shah might not want to play ball – I didn’t really factor that in. How could he turn this down? Just the two of us, hanging out at home, no tourism in the way?

‘Tell him we could play chess,’ I say. ‘If he wants.’

‘Munro says you and him could play chess … You don’t want to play chess? … You hate chess? … You want to play checkers instead.’

‘We can do that.’

Kelvin says ‘uh-huh’ four times in quick succession, then hangs up the phone. ‘He says you can visit, provided you don’t pretend to know anything about football.’

‘I think I can manage that.’

We exit Reception and follow the winding walkway that is Fair Go’s main artery. Flowers of many colours line the path. One looks like a red hair-brush and is attractive to the local bees. The path cuts through what Kelvin calls the business district: the Creative Arts Precinct, the Recycling Depot, the Digital Media Centre. In the windows of the buildings, I hope to see glimpses of my team in action. I’m disappointed. The beating heart of Fair Go is still a mystery to me. I got a sense of it at my interview and on my orientation, but it’s been all bus rides and Brisbane sights since then. Ironic, I think. I’m touring the city and beyond, but the place I’d really like to see remains under wraps.

‘So you’re missing a class to be here, correct?’ asks Kelvin, as we approach the boxy, red-brick townhouses.

‘Yeah.’

‘Generous of Sussex to allow you to do that. Are there other students getting this deal, too?’

‘I don’t know.’

He checks his watch. ‘Is there a form I need to sign? Or someone I need to call? You know, to confirm that you turned up and weren’t wagging?’

‘There’s no form.’

We enter the Living Precinct and walk along the pavers-on-gravel path to the front door of House 4. Kelvin knocks, then cups his ear against the door. The welcome mat at our feet is turned over. We wait for ages, then finally hear footsteps. Locks are released. The door opens slowly, revealing Shah’s retreating figure. Before he disappears, I get a look at the back of his head. He’s had a haircut – a hair chop, in fact. The close shave highlights the dent in the lower part of his skull. It’s pink and stark and impossible to ignore. It’s like an unblinking eye.

Kelvin extends an open hand towards the inside of House 4. ‘Best of luck with the interview, Munro.’

Shah and I sit on either side of a small table, chessboard set up for play.

‘You don’t want to play checkers after all, Shah, eh?’

‘Yes. I do.’

‘Oh. Do you have the right pieces?’

‘These here, they are good.’

‘You want to play checkers with chess pieces?’

‘Yes. You have problem with that?’

‘No, no … I don’t. You want to get started?’

‘I am not ready.’

‘Okay, cool. No probs.’

I look around the living space. It has everything a young resident could want: TV, sound system, couch and chairs. There’s even a foldaway treadmill in one corner. The contrast between here and what I’ve seen in the worker areas is glaring. The staff residences are pretty basic. The fridge in the break room has a loose handle. The furniture in Kelvin’s office – I’d bet on most of it being second-hand. The phone in Reception is one of those bricks they were making before I was born.

‘Sweet set-up you have here, Shah. You must like having all this good stuff.’

‘These things … they are not mine.’

‘Well, okay, you didn’t buy them. But you live here. This is your home.’

‘This is not my home.’

I look around again, this time recognising what’s not here. The meaningful, non-material things – photos, artwork, maybe a flag or some cultural knick-knacks. There is a colourful mat – I’m guessing for prayer – spread out beside the armchair.

‘Do you always feel that way?’ I ask.

‘Is this the interview for your school now?’

‘Um, sort of. More just a chat at this point.’

‘You want to know why I like to sleep very much?’

‘Sorry?’

‘For interview. You want to know why I like to sleep very much?’

I shrug. ‘If you want to tell me, sure.’

Shah takes the white queen in a pincer grip and begins twisting the piece this way and that. His Adam’s apple shifts in his throat. ‘When I am awake, I think about my family. Are they hopeful? Are they sad? Are they even still alive? Were they killed because they help me to escape civil war and the camp? I think about them when I am awake in the back of truck that take me out of city and across Pakistan border. On the boat crossing ocean from Indonesia. In detention on Nauru. In Australia, after I finally processed as proper refugee after ten months. And I think about them today, when I am here at Fair Go.’

He releases the white queen, aims and flicks the piece with his middle finger. It skitters across the board, falls over and rolls through a couple of black pawns. It comes to a stop beside one of the black bishops.

‘When I sleep,’ he continues, ‘I am with my family. We are together. I talk to them. They talk to me. And everything is good, everything is correct … until I am awake again.’

I let Shah’s words take as much air as they need. For a while after Evie died, it was the opposite for me. I didn’t want to sleep. I would replay the whole scene in my dreams: the collapse, the panic, the compressions, the numb nausea as the paramedics took her away. There was always something different in the replay, some awful alteration of the facts. It might be her eyes being open or her lips being yellow or her chest disintegrating under the weight of my hands. One time, we exchanged places. It was the only dream where I woke up sweating instead of the usual shivering.

Sleep got a bit better after the decision to come to Australia. Waking hours? They’re still hard, but the Fair Go effect is spreading. To twist Shah’s words, more and more I am without the Coyote. We aren’t together. I don’t talk to it. It doesn’t talk to me. And everything is good, everything is correct.

Never thought I’d feel that way, today of all days. 8 March.

I place the white queen in the palm of my hand and offer it to Shah. ‘I don’t want to stay too long, I want to let you get back to sleep. But before I go, let’s play some checkers, eh?’

Our eyes lock – for how long, I’m not sure – then he reaches out, grasps the queen, returns it to its proper place on the board.

‘I knew how to play chess before I am in detention centre,’ he says. ‘I cannot remember anything about game now. It is too hard.’

We begin playing checkers. Diagonal shifts, one space at a time, an occasional jump. We’re about a dozen moves in when I flip the script and use one of my knights to capture a white pawn two spaces across and one down.

Shah gives a short, sharp shake of the head, like he just chugged some foul medicine. ‘What are you doing? You can’t do that.’

I facepalm, move the knight back. ‘Ah, sorry. Forgot what we were playing there for a second. Been spending a tonne of time practising chess lately. Knights can move in an L-shape.’

We continue. Take a piece here, give a piece there. Shah rides a bishop all the way to the end zone and crowns it with a bottle cap. A cheer from somewhere near the Rec Refuge comes through the window. Maybe our match is being broadcast to the rest of the village. I move a rook four spaces across and kick Shah’s other bishop to the kerb.

‘What is this?’

‘I can do that, can’t I?’

‘No! You cannot!’

‘Sorry, dude. Totally thought that was allowed in chess and checkers. My bad.’

Shah glares at me and, for a second, I’m worried he’s going to quit the game. Get up, storm off, tell me to leave and never come back. If he’s thinking of it – any of it – the thoughts are short-lived. He kings a pawn with a small rusty nut.

‘I have excuse for dumb play,’ he says, a hint of friendly teasing in his tone. ‘What is yours?’

‘Hockey hits,’ I reply.

The contest marches to the finish line. Twenty minutes after we started, Shah has four pieces left, two kinged. I have three and two. It’s my turn. One decisive move will tip the balance in this checkers game, and I have one ready, but it’s not meant to claim victory. I grab the black king and send it in all directions, sweeping the board, leaving a single white pawn as the lone survivor.

Shah bursts out laughing. ‘You had many hockey hits, yes?’ he asks.

‘Whassup?’

‘The king, he cannot move like that. Only the queen.’

‘Say that again?’

‘The king cannot move everywhere. The queen, yes; the king, no.’

I stare at Shah as I return his pieces to their previous positions. His laugh has faded into a smile and more of his first language. I wait for the puck to drop. It doesn’t. He has no clue what he just said, doesn’t get that he remembered. Should I tell him? I don’t want to jeopardise this afternoon’s progress. For now, maybe it’s best to let it slide. The fact that the memories are still there – that’s good enough.

An image jumps to mind: the back of Shah’s head, whole, complete, no chunk missing.

We play the game out. I stick to checkers the rest of the way. Shah wins (fair and square) and, after a rejected high five and a reset of the board, I tell him I should bounce so he can go back to sleep.

‘Same time next week, if it’s okay with you?’

‘For more interview or more checkers?’

‘Whatever you want.’

‘For hockey hits,’ he says. ‘And talking to you is good. It makes me want more sleep.’

I grin and head for the door. On the way out, I sneak one last peek. Shah is sitting back in his chair, arms folded, surveying the chessboard like it’s something he built with his own hands.

When I get home, Hyde husband and wife are on the front deck.

‘Hey, Munro,’ says Nina. ‘How was school?’

‘Good.’

‘You came home late today, yeah?’

‘I wanted to get some homework out of the way.’

‘Nice!’

‘Come inside, mate,’ says Geordie. ‘We’d like to have a quick word, if that’s okay.’

‘Um, sure.’

We get comfortable in the living room. I glance at the phone, then zero back in on the Hydes. There’s no suggestion they’re aware of my bail-out. No vibe of anger or disappointment. Just sympathy and concern.

‘We won’t beat around the bush,’ says Geordie. ‘We wanted to talk to you about this Fair Go place.’

‘Okay.’

‘About the work you’re doing there.’

The pair exchange a solemn look.

Geordie leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands interlocked. ‘You’ve been talking a lot about one of the residents in particular. Zahd? Zar?’

‘Shah.’

‘Shah. Can you tell us a bit more about him?’

I study Geordie’s craggy face. Still no alarm bells. ‘He’s from Afghanistan. He’s had a lot of problems since he had to leave his country, one of which is a head trauma that might have happened along the way. I can’t say for sure. Anyway, it’s the reason he’s at Fair Go. He’s sad and angry, and he wants to sleep all the time so he can dream about being back with his family. And he can’t remember things the way he used to, like chess, for example. That’s where I’m trying to assist him – helping him remember how to play chess.’

Geordie gets up, begins pacing the rug. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his khakis. A vein has appeared on his forehead. ‘Sounds like you’re on a bit of a mission with him.’

‘I guess you could say that.’

‘One that you might want to continue after your fifty hours of volunteering is up?’

‘I haven’t really thought about it. I guess I could.’

Geordie stops, gives a look to his wife that says ‘your turn’ and sits on the coffee table.

‘Munro, it’s wonderful what you’re doing out there,’ says Nina. ‘This Shah fellow is lucky to have you taking an interest in him. But we’re both a bit worried that, well, that you’re getting in a bit deep. We want you to go to Sussex State High, work hard, have fun and take home the best experience possible. We don’t want you to go home disappointed that … that Shah didn’t remember how to play chess.’

‘I won’t go home disappointed,’ I reply. ‘I’m going to a good school. I’ve made new friends. I’ve got a great family taking care of me. Fair Go is a bonus. It’s gravy. Yes, I like helping Shah and the other residents, but I’m not expecting miracles. I’ve got everything in perspective.’

Liar.

Geordie pats the coffee table and I sit beside him. He studies my face, top to bottom, as if it’s a map of a place he’s never seen. I wonder if he’s imagining me behind a car window, panic-stricken, water rising all around.

‘Helping a young man like Shah, that’s a good thing, Munro. A very good thing. No two ways about it.’ His voice is barely above a whisper. ‘But here’s the rub: you can only do so much to make things right.’

He lays a hand on my shoulder. It’s heavy and stiff.

‘After that, you need to help yourself.’

Ah, but it’s 8 March.

You helped yourself just fine today, didn’t you?

Louis talks through a FaceTime delay and a mouthful of breakfast poutine. ‘Sounds too easy. What’s the catch?’

‘No catch.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nope.’

‘The Hydes will eventually find out you’re cutting classes, man. Then they’ll tell your mum and dad.’

‘First off, it’s only Wednesday afternoons. Second, it’s not really cutting. Third, Mum and Dad said they’d support me, whatever I wanted to do.’

Lou points a soggy fry down the line. ‘Sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself rather than me.’

‘It’s the truth.’

‘Truth, eh? That’s all I want. Gimme some, just like Eddie Vedder says.’ He pushes his half-empty bowl aside, wipes his hands down the front of his shirt. His face goes all sucked lemon. ‘So gimme the truth about today.’

‘What about it?’

‘8 March? Is that the real reason for cutting class?’

I shrug. ‘It’s just another day, man.’

Louis’s reply is disrupted by a knock on the bedroom door. Rowan pokes his head in.

‘Sorry, Lou. I gotta go.’

My best friend since elementary school gives me a minor hairy eyeball and wags a finger. ‘To be continued, Mr Maddux.’

‘Or not, Mr Teen Helpline.’

My tablet screen blanks out. I wave for Rowan to come in.

‘Sorry, Mun. Didn’t mean to interrupt.’

‘This is your house – you don’t have to be sorry.’

‘Yeah, well, I might get kicked out with the sneaky shit you’ve got me doing.’ He laughs at my instant horror. ‘I’m kidding, brother!’ He thumbs through one of the old surf mags on the TV stand. ‘So, you probably worked it out from your chat with the oldies – I wiped the phone message the school sent. They don’t have a clue.’

‘Thanks, man.’

‘And I can keep wiping them, if you want.’

‘I don’t want to get you in trouble.’

‘Meh. As far as my criminal record goes, this is littering.’ Rowan sits in the office chair at the desk and spins slowly. ‘A message will probably get through to the keeper at some point, though. You know that, hey?’

‘Yeah.’ I shift up to the head of my bed, slip a pillow behind my back. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Go for it.’

‘Why are you good with this? I get that to you it’s littering, but … why are you helping me?’

Rowan stops spinning. He rubs his buzzcut. ‘Do you know exactly what went down with Dad’s rescue?’

‘No.’

‘You didn’t look it up?’

‘No.’

‘Didn’t search any of the million articles out there?’

I fold my arms. ‘Evie’s death was a story, too, so I know what it’s like to have your misery out there for all to see. And there is misery in Geordie’s rescue, isn’t there?’

Rowan blows a big puff of breath and begins talking to the ceiling. ‘At the height of the flood, on 11 January 2011, Dad tied a rope around his waist and swam out to a blue Ford Fiesta caught in the Logan River. He pulled the driver out – a man named Patrick Cloutier – and managed to drag him back to the bank. Then he swam out again to get Patrick’s brother, Sean. He was in the passenger seat. Dad was about halfway out when the car got swept away. Sean’s body was found the next day near the Carbrook golf course.’

In the corner of the room, something is loose inside the guts of the pedestal fan, sticking with each rotation.

‘A lot of stuff happened in the three years after that, up until Dad left work on medical. Not much of it was good. Not even the medals. The thing I remember most about those three years is the look Dad had most of the time – sort of uptight, distracted. It was like he was still in the water, still with the rope tied around him. Waiting. Waiting for that blue Fiesta to come back so he could finish the job. Waiting for a chance to make things right.’

He brings his gaze down, then flips it my way.

‘I’ve seen that look on your face – on your first day here and quite a few days since. It’s not fun seeing that look. And, sure as shit, I know it’s not fun living with it. So, I’m trying to help you get rid of it.’

Mum and Dad

My 8 March has just ended and yours is just starting. Hard to believe it’s been one year. I considered calling but I bailed. Thought it might make things harder rather than easier.

I was okay today. Better than okay, actually. In my interview with the YOLO coordinator, he said he can see great things ahead for me (!). And do you remember me telling you about my team at Fair Go? You remember Shah? I made a pretty big breakthrough with him. I played checkess with him – a combo of chess and checkers. It helped bring back some memories he’d lost. School was fine, too, btw. The afternoon class was particularly good. I haven’t had any major ‘challenges’ the last couple of weeks.

8 March will always be hard. What I did today – it didn’t make things easier, but it made things better. And if things keep getting better, they’ll eventually be the best they can be. That’s what I’m aiming to do. Not just 8 March. Every day.

When you visit Evie’s grave today, tell her I love her and I miss her.

M