In the rundown but blessedly un-junkyard like backyard, which was now accessible via the previously blocked kitchen door thanks to Lena’s going too far and getting carried away, she gathered a loose bouquet of flowers and greenery. Most of it probably weeds, technically, but it looked pretty. Bursts of yellow and orange and a spray of white. In the kitchen, she trimmed the stems, chose a tall tumbler from the sparkling clean cupboards she’d carefully stocked with the best of the hoarded crockery, and half filled it with water. She carried the arrangement into Nic’s room and placed it on the dressing table. Pulled out her goddamn cracked phone and texted Nic: Sorry, my phone broke! Everything is fine here tho. Spoke to that Ada chick and she said we’re good to bring you home tomorrow! Off to work now but can’t wait to see you tomoz xox

WILL

WILL

A couple of hours before they were due to collect Nic, Will googled hoarding disorder, cringing because he hadn’t thought to do it before. Why do I have to be the one to think of everything? Mercy said all the time, and he used to not know what she was on about until he did, and then that, too, became a thing she’d had to think of first.

He’d only thought of it at all because his tooth had seared him awake while it was still dark and he had taken the last of the ibuprofen and was back on the sofa under the quilt, trying to distract himself from the barely diminished pain. He read the ‘Hoarding Disorder’ Wikipedia page and then one from a social services mob, tried to see Aunty Nic in any of it. But how would he? He hardly knew her anymore. Was she indecisive and anxious? Socially isolated? Did she have OCD? But here was something: a traumatic event. She’d had a couple of those, he knew. But who hadn’t? Still, could be a thing to consider.

The toilet flushed, water ran on and off, a pool of yellow light cast out into the hallway.

‘Hey, Leen,’ he called. ‘When did Uncle Steve die?’

‘What are you on about?’ She was in the doorway, scowling, hand on hip like a cartoon of an angry mother.

‘Just wondering what might have triggered all this.’

‘Steve died when I was a baby.’

It annoyed him, her dropping of the Uncle, the Aunty. Like she thought she was on par with them, grown. ‘Do you reckon that might—’

‘Obviously not. We practically lived here as kids, long after he died. She was fine.’

‘Yeah. But it’s weird Mum and Aunty Nic never spoke about him. Maybe there’s something—’ But she had stomped away already.