The chairs circle Mum’s empty fire pit, women take turns bringing more cups of tea and boiling more water. It’s still too hot for a fire, but we all need the tea. I sit on my step and take it all in. Trying not to see Laney sitting beside me, making cheeky comments about that uncle or who this cousin was seeing on the sly.

At some point the oven bell goes off and I’m up and checking the veggies. Mum shouts at Uncle Billy to go pick up Pop so he can come have a feed before she follows me in to help. As we’re setting up the food on the table, Danny and Fred come walking around the house with a carton. Everyone looks at Mum for her reaction. She frowns, but doesn’t say anything so we take it as permission.

Pop rolls up with Uncle Billy, and Aunty Fern gets him settled into a chair with a full plate and his old tin mug filled to the brim with tea. Some of the cousins go to get their kids. I’m glad for them biscuits and cakes then. We can stretch food like nobody’s business. Jesus has nothing on my mob.

We settle into old rhythms. Fall into them. The same thing we’ve done hundreds, maybe thousands of times before at each other’s houses. Only it isn’t quite right. No games are played, and the kids aren’t pestering the older cousins to play with them. Uncle Billy doesn’t get his guitar that he always carries in his Ford. Annie doesn’t start cracking her dry jokes, and no one puts on the stereo, which means there isn’t a war over the volume or the music. Pop would normally finish his meal, sit for a bit and then head home. He’s getting tired quick now. But he doesn’t go home for a long, long time, and Mum doesn’t suggest it.

As many of us as there are, we all notice the missing face around the fire. Nobody says it. Nobody speaks about the day. We stay close, taking comfort in each other and trying not to listen out for an absent voice.

Day 2, Midnight

Day 2, Midnight

Opening my eyes on nothing, I grieve to see I have not been dreaming; the same dripping sound of this underground place, the dirt under me, the damp smell. I’m on my side in the foetal position, my knees so close to my chest that my forehead rests on them. Pain radiates through my body and I can’t remember the last time I’ve been aware enough to move position. I force myself to keep still, listening for the breath or the crying. There is nothing but that slow, slow drip.