I leave early. Lettie’s in her front yard scowling at four people in white jumpsuits piling out of a van. It has one of those cage trailers attached at the back. They wave at her. She stands next to the skip and glares at them. Another truck with a skip on the back appears around the corner. Good luck to whoever thinks they’ll be filling that thing. My shoulders relax a little. There’s no way they’ll get through the house today, they won’t make it to the backyard for ages.

“Who do you think you’re waving at? We’re not friends.” Lettie’s angry voice cuts through the morning chill.

I smile.

SCHOOL’S NOT THE relief it usually is. Ms. Pham asks if I’m okay and tells me I have some extra homework to catch up on, then we get a notice for school camp. A trip to the old gold mines in Ballarat. It costs eighty-nine dollars. The rest of the day jumps through moments: I’m performing coherent actions I don’t remember starting or finishing.

What if I pay? That’s enough to feed me and Splints for more than a week. I don’t taste the sandwich in my mouth, the bread’s stale. What if I don’t go? That’s attention. I stare at the numbers in front of me, half the problems already solved. Everybody goes. I get paints out in the art room. I could ask for help to pay. I’m washing paint off my hands. But that means forms and more attention and involvement of parents and the school welfare officer. I’m in the bathroom, there are younger kids splashing each other at the sink. I have to go. It’s the only unremarkable option. I’m reciting something in Chinese in the language room with the rest of the class. Who’ll look after Splints? It’s only two nights. I’m sitting back at my desk. It’s two months away. Money’s due in a few weeks. I’m copying something off the whiteboard. A little voice asks if I even need to worry. By the time the camp rolls around we’ll be out of money anyway. My pen makes a hole in the paper in front of me. The end gouges into the desk. I don’t know what to do.

“What was that, Rae?”

I look up. I’m talking out loud now.

My neck’s hot.

“Are you okay? You look a bit flushed.”

“I’m fine.” It croaks out, my throat the size of a twenty-cent coin. I swallow and try again. “Just getting over that bug a bit still.”

Ms. Pham’s giving me one of her looks, the one she reserves for What’s going on here? “Do you want to go to sick bay?”

“No!” Everyone is looking now. “No.” Quieter this time. “No, I’m fine.” The set of her lips tells me she’s not convinced. I throw her a bone: “But can I go and get a drink, please? My throat’s still a bit scratchy.” I flutter my fingers around that little dip in my neck at the base of my throat, hoping she can’t see how fast my pulse is banging around beneath it. She straightens slightly, the subtle lean toward me no longer needed. She was right, there was a problem, I needed a drink. Intuition satisfied.