I move away and put my head on the ground. The wood chips are cool and painful under my cheek. I just want to lie in a ball and rest my head here.

I’m so tired.

I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and watch as Splinter licks up my spew.

OSCAR MUST HAVE been watching out his window, waiting for us to walk by. We’re only about five steps past his gate when he comes racing out his front door.

“Rae!”

“What.” I turn to look at him, hoping the look on my face will be enough of a hint to go away.

“Wow. You look awful.”

“Shut up.”

He looks shocked, then gives me a half smile like I must be joking. “Do you want to come over?”

“Oh my god, no! Can’t you take a hint? Just leave me alone.” I don’t wait for his reaction. I leave him standing in the drizzle. I dare the world to make this worse. Let it try. I don’t even care anymore.

DAY 47

THURSDAY

WHAT AM I doing here?

I don’t sleep. I’m back on the couch, with Splinter asleep on the floor beside me. I watch the night go black. Then, eventually, back to gray.

When the currawong’s finished its morning shout-out I pull on your dressing gown and go sit in the damp grass next to you. I sit with my back to the door. The long grass I left near the door is up to my shoulders now. I lean my head back against the wood. I imagine you sitting on the other side so we’re back-to-back, the door between us.

“What do I do?”

I imagine you breathing. Tracing your fingers across the ground, like you’d do on the kitchen table when you couldn’t look at me. Like you’d do on my back when I couldn’t sleep.

“I don’t know what to do.”

I hear a scratching. Splinter’s at the back door. I can see his paws reaching up onto the glass, his claws tapping, his nose breathing onto the panes. He keeps at it for a while before I hear a loud snuff. He’s settled with his nose pressed underneath. Smelling us, out here, without him.

I can feel my bum getting wet through your bathrobe. I pull the towel away from under the door. If I sniff under it like Splinter, will you hear? Will I smell you? I pull out some grass stems and poke them under one by one.

I picture you watching them come through, one stem at a time. Like the drawings I used to post under your bedroom door when I was little, trying to get you to come out.

I hold my breath and listen.

“Mum?”

I know you’re not there. But the silence is like a held breath, the silence of listening, the silence of our life.