My fingers are shaking as I untie Splinter. I risk a glance as I pull him away. The two women are behind the counter again. They give me a wave.

I walk to the playground round the corner, my legs like planks.

I sit in the dry under the play equipment, grateful for the drizzle. There’s no one else here. I open the envelope.

It’s got the same stuff as the other letter. I read each page carefully. Not much of it makes sense but I get the message: fourteen days’ Notice to Vacate, and there’s a copy of the application to the Tribunal for a Repossession Order. Repossession of what? Does it mean they can take our things too? Is that what happens when rent is late?

The last thing is a notice of objection. I do object. But what can I possibly say? It says to fill it in and return it by 4:00 p.m. of the last day of the notice period. I don’t know what that means. Do they mean before the fourteen days are up? They say I can contact the Tenants’ Union for advice. I look at the number. What would I tell them? It’d be the whole you have to be an adult all over again. I stare at the first page. Notice to Vacate. Where will I go?

Rent in arrears. How? It should have been paid.

I pull out your phone and log in to the bank account and . . . I don’t get it. There’s still money there. Last time it just took the rent out automatically.

I look again. It says the rent came out two weeks ago, but there’s a note next to it. Insufficient funds, transfer declined. I don’t understand. I checked weeks ago that there was enough money.

I look down the transaction history. Automatic deductions for internet, Netflix, power, phone; transactions at the gas station, the gas station, Coles, Coles, Chemist Warehouse, Coles, pizza . . . The list of transactions is long. I look at it all: it’s food, essential oils, vaporizers, mosquito coils, gas bill, pizza.

I spent the money. It seemed like there was so much there.

This is my fault.

I don’t know what to do. I look at the notices on my lap, trying to force back the hissing in my head. Trying to focus. What does this mean? Will someone come to the house and kick me out? Will they take all our stuff? Should I just take what I can and leave before they get there?

Then I think about you and the hissing gets louder. My tongue swells to twice its size in my mouth. What about you? I try to swallow, working hard to push the saliva down. Do I leave you behind? I vomit into the wood chips under the slide, long throat-wrenching heaves that leave me breathless; ribbons of drool hang from my lips.