“Yes, there is evidence. I don’t know why they’re behaving like this now.”

Actually, I do have an inkling, but I won’t share it with Eugene. I barely have the resolution to take it out and examine it in the privacy of my own head.

I think (I fear) that my father’s inflation of the value of the household contents has triggered alarm bells for the insurance company. Now they are re-examining the whole claim. They suspect it to be fraudulent and have decided to involve the police. Any moment now, my father will be notified that the insurance company have decided to repudiate the claim.

It is his own fault for being greedy. If he had estimated the household contents at their correct value, he would have been paid out by now, and we would both have been spared this scrutiny.

But what a venal sin. What a small, forgivable, human thing to do. Who among us wouldn’t try to see how much we could take the insurance company for? (Not me, but that’s because I have an exaggerated respect for the law.)

I choose not to share this with Eugene because I don’t want to expose my father’s failings to his pure vegan gaze.

We walk back the long way, turning our expedition into a five-kilometre hike rather than a three-kilometre one by adding Sirkelsvlei to the route. And then suddenly we are back at the parking lot. Moira and Raz are edging towards their cars, whispering and giggling. Eugene suggests that we go somewhere for coffee to round off our morning, but they make unconvincing excuses.

Moira texts something into her phone. Raz’s phone beeps. He checks the message and they smile at each other. It couldn’t be any clearer that an assignation has been made. There is a flurry of cheek-kisses and handshakes, and they peel out of the parking lot, unable to wait another moment before getting their hands on each other.

I wait for Eugene to suggest that we still go for coffee—just the two of us. But he doesn’t.

“Oh, well. Another time then,” he says.

* * *

I get home in time for lunch. I separate two slices of white bread from a loaf in the freezer. I cut slices of cheese and place them on the bread. Then I heat this in the microwave. I am just settling down with this meal when the doorbell rings.

It is a female child this time.

“I was about to eat my lunch,” I protest.

“I’m sorry. I’ll come back another time.”

She looks so downcast I can’t bear to send her away. “No, it’s okay. You can come inside.”

She approaches diffidently, unsure of her welcome.

“You are very different from your brother,” I remark.

“No, no, sorry. He is not my brother. I am he, female. And he is me, male.”