At my mailbox, I put it into a drift and take the turn, but the soft tyre makes me slide outwards in my arc, and I almost hit a tree planted by my mother in the driveway. I’m a few hundred metres down my drive when the other vehicle catches up. I keep feeding it to my ute, hoping I can get to a gun before he gets to me. But the vehicle behind me doesn’t take my turn. It keeps going at the speed of someone involved in a chase. Except they’re not. I recognise Mandy from next door as she goes past like a rocket — the speed she normally drives at — late for something, as per usual.

I’m breathing again as I make my way to the garage. This is playing havoc with my health.

In the house, I find the rifle and bullets, and take a seat in my rocking chair and wait. If the guy from Elaine’s comes, I will shoot him if I get the chance. Through the leg or the shoulder. I know the police say that is overestimating your marksmanship on a small target in the heat of the battle. I shut my eyes, and think about it.

When I wake, it is morning and nothing has changed, and I haven’t moved. No one waits for me outside. If someone had wanted to kill me, I would be long dead. But now I have no idea what to do. My assailant must know where I live. Perhaps the box at the mailbox has done its job.

I do my best to get myself together, washing, shaving, and eating. If he is coming for me, I want to have a full stomach. But nobody arrives. My phones do not ring. Even the call centres leave me alone. I should talk to Elaine. I walk around turning things on and off, consider mowing James’s lawn again (it doesn’t need it), and I even water a couple of dying thorny roses. I take Ted and Special, who have waited patiently all night, to their kennels and feed them. Then I return and play patience with real cards, never completing a game. I eat uncooked noodles from the pack.

Then the phone in the house does ring. I ignore it for two rings, and decide that not knowing is worse than the short period of peace I might get. I suck in a few breaths, and plunge in.

The voice says, ‘Dave? Are you all right?’ No formalities — just a cut to the chase. That’s how we talk these days.

‘Hello, Sarah.’ The name spoken is enough to rattle me. No need for the searching lilt of her voice.

‘Mick’s worried about you.’

‘It’s so good to hear you.’

She is quiet. I have said exactly the wrong thing. It’s my specialty.

‘He thinks you might be mixed up in something. Is that true?’