It happens like this. We are going to take the reels off the surf-casting rods that lie on a rack under the garage roof. The rack is like a little mezzanine floor under the peak, too high for us to reach, although I can see the ends of the rods sticking out like handles on a wheelbarrow.

Grandpa looks around. “Where’s that ladder?”

We both remember where it is, against the macrocarpa tree I cut the day before yesterday, only now the rain is pouring down like a waterfall and neither of us wants to go out to carry a wet ladder. We look through the curtain of water that falls over the door. Grandpa says, “Likely as not our water pipe’ll be washed out again.”

“I’ll go up the stream tomorrow and fix it,” I tell him.

“Tomorrow’s no good. You have to wait until the flood subsides.” He pats me on the head. “Nature’s a good teacher, laddie. When there’s tons of water outside, you’ve got to be careful with it inside. Pipe gets washed out, no water running into the tank, you can’t fix it until the stream’s gone down. Good excuse for not having a bath.”

“What about the ladder?” I ask.

He’s not listening. “Look at those trees in the rain. You ever notice the way they produce branches the same design?”

I say yes, but I don’t know what he’s talking about.

“No matter what tree you look at, the branch is the same shape as the tree it’s growing on. Look at the pine, the manuka! Every tree! That’s nature for you, boyo, design expert number one. ”

“The ladder!” I remind him.

“Forget the ladder,” he says, turning back into the garage. “This’ll do it.” He tips a round drum of oil on its edge, and rolls it under the surf-casting rods. “Give me a bit of a help up, eh?”

We should do it the other way around. I don’t weigh too much. If Grandpa lifts me high enough, I can reach the rods, but for some reason, I don’t tell him that. Instead, I let him put his hand on my shoulder so he can hoist himself up on the drum. He stands, feet together inside the rim, and raises his right arm. His hand is shaking. He brings it to the end of one of the rods and holds on for a moment, as though he is thinking what he should do next.

“Can I help?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. His hand comes down and rests at the top of his jacket as he makes that huffing noise. It was what he did at the Hoffmeyers’ place, a sound somewhere between a fast breath and a cough.

“Grandpa?”

Then he falls sideways. It happens too fast for me to do anything. He just drops. Like the tree branch. The oil drum skids across the floor with a screech and Grandpa’s head hits the floor.

“Grandpa, are you all right?”

Of course he isn’t all right. His eyes are almost closed and his face is the same colour as the concrete. Blood comes out of his nose. I try to lift his head up but it falls back again. I pull my hands away and there is blood on my fingers.

That’s when I run out into the rain and see Lissy.

“Grandpa!” My voice is choked.

“What’s wrong?” she says.