“Mum! You’ve never worn a T-shirt in your life!”

Mum shakes her hair back. “Well, I’ve never run a missing-person campaign either, have I?” she says, defensive, wobbling as she bends to slip on her heels. “A printer in town heard what happened, he knew Meg and worked through the night putting them together, bless him. Martin dropped these ones over first thing. Quickly, Car, put it on and then we can get going.”

I don’t need to say anything. Mum looks up at me.

“Oh, Car! You’re not coming, are you?”

“I thought I’d go back to the pub today, just for a few hours.”

Her jewelry jangles as she stands and looks at me, disappointed I’m not joining her.

“Really?” she says. “Is it a good idea to go back so soon? What about tonight?”

“I’m only doing a half shift, I’ll be back way before the vigil starts.”

“But I thought you could help me with my speech, Car . . . I . . .”

“Come on, Mum, you know I need the money and—”

The doorbell rings so I don’t have to say how, more than money, I need time away from concerned glances, endless mugs of tea, and whispers about the effects of trauma. I need to think about something other than the horrible things that could be happening to Grace right now. I need to see if I can feel normal again, even if it’s just for an hour or so.

Mum walks with fast, small steps like a seabird running from the surf and opens the door to Martin and Sylvia, who are also wearing campaign T-shirts, with reflective vests over the top. In their late sixties now, they’re like the parents of the whole estate, keeping an increasingly disapproving eye on everything that happens to anyone who sets foot on Summervale. They’ve been here since the estate was first built and love to talk about how much better it was, how much better people were back then.

“Morning, Susan! Ahh, Cara, good to see you,” Martin says, tilting his head to look at me. Sylvia, by his side, smiles at me and pulls me in for a short, tense hug. “You’re joining us today, are you?” Martin asks.

I explain that I can’t and Martin lifts his eyebrows in a way that suggests he should have expected as much from someone of my generation. Mum gives me her car keys so I don’t have to deal with the bus today. On the road outside, a delivery van pulls up and, staring at the reporters next door, a man hauls a box up the path towards us.

“Oh, this’ll be the T-shirts” Mum says, casting a quick smile at the deliveryman and scribbling her name on his electronic pad. “Let’s get them straight into your car, Martin.”

“No room, with all the vests and maps. We’ll have to leave them here for now and I’ll pick them up tomorrow. We’ve got plenty for today,” Martin says, pulling on brown faux leather driving gloves before turning towards his car, ready to leave.