Then, as the sun sinks, we steal some plants. Flowering ones, lush ones. I pull them out of the parks—pansies, violets, begonias—out of front gardens, from pots, soil still clinging to their roots. I drop those in the nylon bag you keep screwed up in your jacket. Others I drop straight into the long pockets of your coat, folding their leaves gently into the edges. I work methodically, staying away from houses with lights on in the front. I find something that might be broccoli in a communal veggie patch on a nature strip, and rainbow chard too—the only thing we grew successfully with our neglect-based method. I think even that might be dead now. I shove the chard in the nylon bag with the rest. I check out Yarraville Gardens; they always have new plantings. I don’t go to the dog area, though Splinter wants to. I stay in the dark part of the park, uprooting plants in the shadows. I squat in the soil and dig out geraniums with my fingers.

“Hey! What are you doing?” The voice behind me is loud and angry. “This isn’t a nursery! I’ve had enough of people stealing from this park whenever they feel like it.”

I look up from where I’m squatting, my fingers on the plant in front of me, my heart kicking into my chest. An old guy with white hair is standing at the edge of the garden bed clutching a dog lead, hands on hips and a face like a cartoon general. The type to grab children by their shoulders and march them home to let their parents know what they’ve been up to.

I give the only answer I can think of. “I’m doing a wee.”

He steps around from behind me to stand on the path in front, eyes on my face.

I squat closer to the dirt and try again. “I’m doing a wee.” I wait a beat. My voice wobbles. “And you’re watching me.”

He steps back ever so slightly.

His mouth opens, then closes. “No, I . . .” He still looks mad but there’s a flash of uncertainty. He shoots a whip-fast glance toward my legs and bum.

“You are!” I squat down further, counting on the gloom and your long jacket to hide my lie. Splinter steps out from a bush behind me, head lowered. I see my way out. “You’re perving on me!” I let my voice get louder.

“No, I—” He steps back, hands raised, and shoots a glance down toward the dog park.

I stay squatting where I am, a frightened kid caught with her pants down. Even in the gloom I can see the crease between his eyes. He’s pretty sure I’m lying. But not sure enough. He looks down to my hands, still clasped around a small geranium.

“You’re still looking!”

Splinter growls, a low rumble at my back.