I stopped while Gary walked ahead, the light through dirty windows dulling his hair.

It wasn’t decent. This room had once been clean and bright—I could picture lace blowing at the windows and linoleum shining. Horror, and all my mother’s training, swallowed my annoyance at Gary Damson. People shouldn’t live like this. Even monsters.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, returning silently a minute later.

I nearly jumped out of my skin. Gary reached past me and turned off the stream of dirty water I had choked from the faucet.

“There’s no hot water,” I said helplessly.

Gary studied me and sighed. “Put down the soap and come on.”

The spark of resentment rekindled. I set the gritty grey bar down firmly. “So, you can tell me what to do—”

“I don’t remember ever being able to make you listen,” said Gary. As we went down the unsteady stairs, he asked, “Do you often barge into people’s houses and do their dishes?”

“But if it’s Chris and Mitch…” I hesitated, not wanting to say and Dad. He wouldn’t live like that.

“Anything?” interrupted Trish from the truck, glancing away from the high, leafy circle of the horizon. “Food?”

“Filth and a room of books eaten by mice,” said Gary. “Looked like confetti. There’s no one home. We’ll try down the back.”

“We’re going to get shot at for trespassing. Or by accident,” said Trish, looking at the shotgun in distaste. “I’m putting this away. We should call my dad.”

“I didn’t see a phone,” said Gary. “Keep it handy.”

He rolled the truck down between the trees behind the house. The undergrowth was thick on either side, a wilderness of shrubs and straw-dry grass, barbed wire and curling tin—the bones of machines unmade. That grieved me a little.

Beyond stood the shed: a structure of timber and galvanised iron. The end facing us was in blue shadow, but along the side, sunlight glanced dull fire off opaque windows. The high sliding doors on the near wall were closed and padlocked; although the planks were warped, we couldn’t see anything between them. “It’s insulated,” said Gary.

“There’s a door on the other end,” I said, without thinking.

Gary drove around, and there it was. Just as I remembered. We climbed out.

The door had a latch of folded metal, but it was unfastened, its broken lock sunk in the dirt near the toe of my sandal. Gary pushed at the lock with his boot.

“They didn’t need to break in. The key was under the tyre,” I said, puzzled.

“Tina,” hissed Trish, glancing uncomfortably at the screen of saplings. “Whose place is this?”