“Stop that!” Lettie’s voice cuts through the fug. She’s on her front path. Blocking someone with an armful of—what? I squint; it looks like a huge jar of bath plugs.

“I said stop.” It’s a voice I haven’t heard from her before; it’s tight and high. It’s not the voice that lacerated the councilwoman about privacy, or told me off for being rude, it’s not the confident impersonator of other people’s parents. Its edges are frayed and it speaks to the me that wants to hide in the corner of my room and cry. It’s the voice of little-girl Lettie, and she’s scared. I stand frozen at the front gate.

One of them looks at me over their face mask. I bend down and check the letter box, then push through the gate and walk carefully to the front door. I keep my gaze locked in front, slip inside and close the door gently behind me. I go into the lounge, tailed by Splinter, and switch on the TV, then head to your room. I prop the window open slightly and sit under it to listen.

Anxiety vibrates through Lettie’s voice. I know what she’s doing, more of that grabbing out of bins and demanding to check everything. These people seem practiced, their voices soothing, unhurried, like they’ve done it before. They serenely discuss whether she really needs five toilet brushes when she only has one toilet and slowly convince her to keep only two, the new ones, still in their plastic wrapping. Their calm logic wins, but I can hear in the anxious goat footsteps moving from the porch down the hall and back that she’s not okay with it. I hear two of them talking near our fence, then they peel off, one of the voices asking Lettie to come into the backyard to help her sort through which pots to keep. That does the trick. I hear Lettie’s voice moving through the house after her.

“What do you mean which to keep? They’re all good pots. All useful, I’m not getting rid of any of them.”

I can’t hear what the white-suited person says, only the sound of her voice. But I hear Lettie’s replies clear enough.

“You leave my pots alone. You leave my shed alone. What do you mean smell? There’s nothing dead out here! There are no dead rats or possums or anything smelly in my shed, only my things! Just leave it alone. You’re already taking everything from my house! The council said nothing about my shed! You have no right!”

The calm murmuring continues. I hear them moving back inside . . . something about going through the kitchen instead for now.