‘Nothing. Just thinking.’ He shifts his weight and the movement ricochets up her leg into her hip. ‘Up at Mercy’s place we had this neighbour, a few doors down. Neil. He’d sit on his front porch, sunrise to sunset, with this massive thermos, a crossword book and a blue heeler called Winky. I got in the habit of stopping by most days on my way home from work. I’d take a six pack of VB or Neil’d bring out a mug and share the coffee from his thermos. Strong whisky-flavour to that coffee, which I didn’t mind. We’d talk a bit, but not about anything really. I just liked hanging with him there because, see, he never talked about it but I knew from Mercy that Neil had done serious time. Twenty years at least, she said. It was inspiring. Shit word, that one, but it fits. Inside for more than twenty years and still, here he was, acting as if his life was a sweet and worthwhile thing. Every new day worth lingering over and enjoying. Never talked down about stuff, or like he was ruined or a failure.’

She needs to tell him he is not either of those things, never will be, but the medication is kicking in, has filled her mouth with chewy toffee.

‘One arvo Neil wasn’t on the porch. Didn’t take long before the whole street knew that he’d dropped the dog at the pound then gone home and hanged himself. People said it was no surprise, he couldn’t stand the guilt, and I realised I’d never thought to wonder what he’d done to be locked up so long. I should’ve wondered, don’t you reckon?’

You were just minding your own business, she attempts to say, but it comes out garbled and, anyway, he’s continued speaking as if she’s not even there.

‘Once I knew what he’d done, I felt … I felt like giving up on everything. Knowing that crimes like that even happened was too much, let alone that this nice bloke who loved his dog and his crosswords and watching the neighbourhood go about its peaceful business could be responsible … I was so angry. Fucking furious. And I said to Mercy that it was because I felt tricked by him, his kindness. But being honest, for real I don’t think that was it. I think I was angry because I’d been forced to know about this awful thing and I’d rather not. I’d rather have kept being his friend if he lived or kept a nice memory of him when he died. It’s not like I don’t care what he did; it’s that once I knew I did care, and I didn’t want to. You know what I mean, Aunty Nic? I don’t want to have to care about everything all the time. You know?’