When the performance is over, Marko thanks everyone, sets a date for the next get-together, asks if anyone needs to do a training course, and then closes the meeting and hands out the beers. I decline, pat my stomach, and say I’m trying to stay off the beers at the moment. Marko suggests this must be a brand-new idea, and I say it is, and then make to leave. Marko tries to get me to stay, but I am walking before he can get to me. I know the rest of them are shaking their heads, but I just can’t get into this sort of stuff anymore. I don’t even feel part of it. They live in a different world from me, and I can’t find my way back to it. But as I climb into my ute, Cliff runs across the road to get to me. I start the vehicle, so he knows I’m serious. He stands at the door, spreads his hands in resignation, and says, ‘I know you’ve got to go. I just wanted to say, if you ever needed to …’

I nod and say thanks, but he’s not done yet.

‘I know I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, but they say, these days, it helps to talk — you’ve got to talk. They might be right.’

I thank him again, say goodbye, and leave him by the road, some of the laughter gone from his life.

Once home, I wander down to the door of James’s room — a door that I usually stay away from. I know Sarah has made sure the room is exactly as James left it: his clothes in a small pile on the floor, crowded by footballs and tennis balls, and a couple of computer-controlled toys, in pieces to be repurposed, under his desk. I don’t need to look in to know that the desk has a laptop, a few upright books, and some paper with notes and doodles on it. There is a large, white, closed wardrobe that holds the rest of his clothes, shoes, and sports stuff. The walls are a pale blue, marked where James removed or replaced a poster, taking pieces of paint with it. The posters that remain are of motorbikes in the air guided by riders made anonymous by helmets and colourful, branded leathers.