It’s not as easy as I expected. It’s not that the words are hard, but how they’re put together is different from what I’m used to. For this second read I drag our big blue dictionary up onto the cushion next to me to check some of the words and I skip the bits that drag. But I like how it feels. It’s kind of sad but not a scary sad, not a sad that hurts. It’s the sadness of an old painting, all shadowy and soft with warm-blanket colors.

I stop when I get hungry, but there’s no food left. Just the crusts of a stale loaf and some butter. I toast and eat them, dropping crumbs all over the bench. I write a list.

It’s time to do a proper shop that’s not from the gas station round the corner. I grab the green bags from the cupboard. Splinter’s got that happy twitch to him. He knows when I’m getting ready to go outside. I tickle his ears and lean my face into his, then throw some dried food to scatter across the kitchen floor. He hustles after it, excited. I shut the door on him. I feel bad but I’m not taking him with me. I don’t like tying him up outside the supermarket—last time I came out, a drunk man was blowing smoke into his face and, I’m pretty sure, untying his lead.

He’s all I have. He’s staying home.

I’D KIND OF forgotten how much stuff there is in the supermarket.

I look at my list and stroll around, chucking things into the little half trolley. No one pays me any attention, other than to give me an annoyed face if I’m standing where they want to be. If I get more than a glance I just find another adult to pull my cart up next to and look at the same stuff they are. People assume I belong to them and wander off and the person next to me assumes I’m with someone else. Kids in supermarkets are annoying. It’s only kids outdoors that people seem to worry about.

Carrots, tomatoes, baby spinach, mushrooms, eggs, cheese, yogurt, bananas, apples, mandarins. Dog food. Incense. Mosquito coils. Essential oils. Bread. Butter. Ham. Eucalyptus spray. Bleach. Some milk. Muesli. Loo paper. Noodles. I stick to the discounted stuff, but the essential oils are expensive.

I buy some soup in cans and a microwave lasagna thing. I check the calculator on your phone, that’s $98.04. I look at my full trolley. I think I can make it last. I walk down the chocolate aisle to the self-serve checkout. There’s Kit Kats on special. A family block for $1.95. You don’t eat Nestlé, you say they kill orangutans. All the other chocolate’s more expensive, even the smaller bars.

I take myself through the self-checkout: $99.99.