I CAREFULLY PRINT my name on the back of the post office slip and then sign your name. There’s a hollow buzzing in the pit of my stomach. Something hard and electric’s sparking and spinning, twisting my guts into a knot, making the shadow-rat writhe and claw. The electric hiss fills my ears. I focus on finding my student ID, your phone and a beanie. I snap on Splinter’s lead and walk out the front door with purpose, not looking to see if Lettie and Cardigan are watching. Not looking at anything at all.

It’s raining. That nothing-drizzle that’s close to invisible but soaks you through in minutes. I’m glad. The footpaths are empty. I tie Splinter to the pole outside the post office; he sits in the wet and looks pathetic. I wait in line behind an old lady with a shopping trolley, a man in a suit and someone carrying a pile of parcels so high they have to peer around it to see. There’s only one cashier open, and it’s taken up with a woman in a checked coat weighing tiny boxes and then passing them over the counter one by one.

Splinter barks outside. The woman weighs her last box. We all step forward. The trolley lady’s buying stamps, all paid for with coins. Another person comes out from the back. They step out from behind the counter and shut the automatic door. Five o’clock. The old lady finishes with her coins. We step forward. She gets stuck at the door and has to be let out. Splinter whines at me through the glass. The suit man buys an Express Post envelope, the person with the pile of parcels stumbles forward and drops them on the counter. I look down at the slip and my photo ID.

“Next.”

I look up. The other cashier’s opened the second counter. It’s a wonder that I can hear anything over the buzzing in my ears. I step up and hand over the slip and my ID.

She says something to me. I watch her lips to see if I can make sense of it. She says it again. “This has to be picked up by an adult.”

“But that’s my mum.” I point at your name on the delivery slip.

“She’ll have to come and collect it.”

“She can’t.”

“Well, I can’t give it to you.”

“But she signed it. She put my name there. I’ve got my ID.” I say it slowly, reasonably.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. You’ll have to tell your mum to come and get it herself.”

“But she told me to come and get it.”

“It has to be signed for by an adult.”

I point at your signature, the one I wrote. “She did sign for it. She can’t come and get it, that’s why I’m here.”