‘Yeah, I know.’ I knew nothing about a doctored birth certificate or stealing … Did I? I’d have remembered had Zac or Sarah told me. Unless I really was losing it, which was perfectly possible.

‘It’s not exactly the Great Train Robbery. I mean, that’s not the point but …’

‘Yeah.’ I shook my head as if I knew what he was talking about. Sarah would be giving Aaron head. ‘How much money was it again?’

‘About six grand?’

I shook my head. ‘That’s not much.’ Six grand? Six fucking grand. How could I have missed that? Zac and I had talked about his travails in laborious detail, hadn’t we? Sarah and I? Six fucking grand.

‘He’s screwed this time if he loses his job. Finished. Homeless and suicidal, the poor bastard.’

‘Couldn’t he rent your spare room? If the split with Mel’s for keeps, I mean.’

‘Yeah, maybe.’ He inhaled sharply, exhaled, looked deflated.

‘He always has our couch,’ I said. ‘It’s definitely not a long-term solution, but we’re used to him being here, and the kids like having him round.’

‘He loves being here,’ Josh said. ‘I mean, really loves it. I don’t know what he’d do without you guys, to be honest. Just having that, some stability. Oliver and Sophie. His relationship with Sarah. People who love him. He’s the smartest and unluckiest guy I’ve ever known.’

* * *

Nineteen days later, I was struggling to open my eyes.

‘Man, you’ve slept in,’ I said, standing over Zac in the living room, scratching my face. Oliver and Sophie had been whispering about him in their bedroom, giggling.

‘Oh shit.’ His eyes opening, legs kicking at my gran’s crocheted blanket, grabbing his phone. ‘My alarm didn’t go off.’

‘Shall I get you a tea?’

‘Yeah, maybe a quick one or whatever. An oolong, if that’s OK.’

A fucking oolong, hahaha – last one of those for a while.

I said, ‘And call you an Uber?’

‘Dude, that would be really good of you.’ He put on his glasses, pushed his hair back from his forehead. He looked vacant, scared, as most people probably do before heading off to the slammer.

I strolled through to the kids’ room, took their breakfast orders.

‘Weet-Bix with honey,’ Oliver said.

‘Muesli with honey,’ Sophie said.

The kettle bubbled, clicked. I scratched my nuts through my boxers, typed into my phone Melbourne West Pol … clicked 313 Spencer Street, booked the Uber. That was it, I was done. From there, the authorities would take over, get Zac to Southern Cross, take him to HM Loddon, his home for the next four weeks. He’d been granted a couple of days after the trial to sort out his affairs before handing himself in.