No answer, only images: the bruised old woman in the hospital bed; the urine-stained, ranting one, half buried by junk and tat.

While she’d been hiding in the hospital, Sydney’s jacarandas had burst into flower and the campus and surrounding streets were flushed purple. The sight of them infused her with optimism. She’d forgotten this about Sydney; how the blossoming of the jacarandas signalled the winding down of the school year, the almost-here summer holidays. This lightness, this buzz of childlike excitement was merely Pavlovian. The sight of the college building Josh had taken her to, disguised as an innocent sandstone backdrop to three giant jacarandas, corrected her falsely lifted mood. There was nothing to look forward to here.

She’d been in her room ten minutes, was preparing to make the trek down the hallway to the shower, when there was a knock on her door. The RA who had run her orientation in February. Julie, Julia, Julianne? A peroxided pixie cut, eighties-style blue eyeshadow. She wore baggy pyjama bottoms, candy pink stripes on a white background. Her yellow t-shirt hung to mid-thigh.

‘Lena! You’re here for once. Can we chat?’

‘Okay.’ Lena motioned to the desk chair, perched herself on the edge of her single bed. Her shower bag—an absurd, shiny hot pink sack hanging on a hessian rope, a gift from Mum—by her side. She hadn’t turned on the light when she’d come in and the day was fading fast. The dim quiet made it feel like a sick room. Switching on the light now would only encourage the RA to linger. Let her sit in the growing dark for as long as she could stand it.

‘So, this is awkward …’ Juli-whatever looked at her own twisting hands. ‘I’ve been made aware of this, um, this material that’s circulating?’

Lena listened to her own breaths, in and out. Normal.

‘Material featuring you?’

Unprecedented quiet. Why no stomping in the hallway? No shouting from downstairs or hammering on neighbours’ doors? No tinny music or shrill ringtones or Skype trills. Not even a bird calling its babies in for the night. She picked up the shower bag, couldn’t believe the loudness of the squeak its skin made against hers.

‘You do know what I’m talking about, don’t you? Lena?’