She finished clearing the kitchen doorway of newspapers, making a mental note to check if the council around here did extra recycling pick-ups. There was a narrow path from where she stood in the hallway to the sink under the kitchen window, passing the table on the left and the fridge and stove on the right. She tried to picture Nic in this space, stumbling through sleepy-eyed in the morning to make some toast, or dashing in during the ad breaks at night to boil the kettle. It was impossible: there could be no stumbling or dashing, here, only steady, watchful motion. Like walking across the stone bridge over the creek behind her mate Lou’s place in Brisbane. Wide enough as long as you don’t slip or turn an ankle.

The sink was filled with plastic takeaway containers—clean, by the looks of them. Nic had always been fastidious around food. When they slept over as kids they had to eat at the table off new plastic plates. As soon as they were finished, Nic would throw the leftovers and plates in the bin, wipe the table and their hands with antiseptic spray that smelt like pine trees and stung the broken skin around your nails. Then she’d take the bin bag outside. Later, if she’d bought ice creams, they’d sit on the front steps and gobble them down, throwing the wrappers and sticks straight into the outside bin. Lena had mentioned it to her mum once and she’d rolled her eyes and said, Thank god she doesn’t have kids, which was a thing Mum said about Nic all the time, even though she seemed perfectly happy to leave her own kids with her for days or even weeks.

Lena was glad for that particular weirdness right now. If Nic had been a food hoarder or even let her dirty dishes pile up, she really didn’t think she’d be able to deal with it. Her gag reflex was overdeveloped. Pity she didn’t go down on Josh; might have spewed all over his deceitful dick.

Stop! Focus.

The windowsill over the sink was cluttered with empty soft drink and wine bottles. Over the top of them she could just make out the corner of the Hills hoist that, on scorching hot days, she and Will would hook their hands on to and swing in a circle while Aunty Nic aimed the hose at a central point. Reaching that point, feeling the cold slap of water before quickly moving on, was better somehow than standing still and having Nic spray them all over.