When the airport pharmacy opened at 7 a.m. he tried to buy some codeine, was reminded he needed a prescription and had to settle for Panadol. He swallowed a double dose as soon as he got on the plane, and another two halfway through the flight. The box told him the contents could be toxic if you exceeded the recommended dose, but at least if he ended up in hospital with paracetamol poisoning he might get some decent pain meds.

By the time he’d boarded the Sydney airport train he concluded he’d been sold a placebo. The pain was immense and he couldn’t resist sticking a finger in there every so often to try to press the throbbing down. An old lady across the aisle made a point of muttering under her breath each time and he genuinely felt bad about grossing her out, but it was that painful he couldn’t help himself.

As a distraction he flicked through the photos Lena had sent. He focused in hard, zooming and dragging multiple times on each, feeling a tickle of satisfaction when he managed to recognise a chair or toy or framed picture in among the visual noise. He was reminded of the window of Kerrie’s Gifts back in Mackay. From across the street it was a jungle scene, but painted in gold and blue and pink and yellow instead of shades of green. Up close, you began to see where one object ended and another began and then, with concentration, you could make out what some of those objects were: garish Venetian-style masks hung off teddy bears which sat on side tables which were perched over ceramic dolls which were nestled next to wooden crucifixes and glass vases and lamps and some of all that half draped in scarves and tablecloths, and in any tiny gaps glimpses of the shop beyond, shelves and shelves of more of the same.

Except in Lena’s photos, only a third or so of the stuff was identifiable, even when he zoomed right in. A lot of the space was taken up by bags—garbage bags and canvas shopping totes and a few of those plastic-hessian stripy things you saw homeless men dragging around at Roma Street station. He hoped the bags were Lena’s work and that they would all be gone by the time he arrived, but he knew that was unlikely. Most of them were wedged tightly against other bags, against furniture or stacks of paper. They were storage, not garbage. But storage for what? Clothes, probably, but also things with sharp angles that poked through the sides, small appliances and boxes and … and … what? He racked his brain.