Truth was he felt a bit shocked-and-awed himself now he was looking at her up close and personal. When he’d said goodbye to Lena in Brisbane she was a sturdy, sun-browned fourteen-year-old. He’d seen plenty of photos of her since, knew she’d got skinnier as she grew taller, but none of the photos captured this frailty. Her collarbones stabbed up between the straps of her dirt-streaked pink singlet; a pair of navy school shorts hung low and baggy off her bony hips. And that goddamn vicious purple scar, more obvious than ever against the unnatural, wintry paleness of her skin.

He swallowed the gut-cramping panic the scar always produced in him, gestured to the front door. ‘Can we go inside before the lung cancer sets in or what?’

‘Yeah, ’course.’ Her huge, wet eyes blinked fast. She unlocked the door, hesitated. ‘Actually, just let me put this shopping away and then we’ll go see Nic. She’ll be so excited.’

Lena turned on her heel and Will followed her into the house. It looked about the same as in the pictures Lena had sent, which was weird given the skip he’d walked past on the way in had been half full.

‘You ready?’

‘Yeah, but …’ He put his backpack on the floor at his feet. ‘Can we take a minute to catch up first. I haven’t seen you in—’

‘Nic’s expecting me.’

‘—six years,’ he finished.

‘We’ll catch up later. Come on.’ She squeezed past him, out the door. ‘Make sure the lock clicks shut,’ she called, already on the footpath, moving away from him.

Aunty Nic was in a different hospital from the one Dad had died in. This one was on an inner-city street so chaotic that making it from the bus stop to the front door was like a game of Frogger. Motorbikes and delivery vans and SUVs screamed to a stop milliseconds before slamming into Lena as she dominated the crossing, seemingly oblivious to it all. Will kept stopping before the vehicles did, not sure they wouldn’t speed through, leaving a vaguely man-shaped smear on the road. By the time he reached the entrance Lena was tapping her foot. ‘Keep up, country boy,’ she said.

Once through the sandstone arches and across the granite and stained-glass foyer the hospital felt remarkably familiar. The same poster chiding lazy lift-riders about the missed opportunity to be good to their hearts by taking the stairs. Same creepy instrumental versions of Elvis Presley songs playing just loud enough that you can’t ignore it, interrupted by the same decibels-louder pre-recorded announcements about proper hand-washing and the fines applicable to anyone found smoking in the building. Same aggressively chemical scent in the public areas, not always disguising the reek of piss or shit or vomit or blood wafting from the wards.