I smile. ‘Plenty.’

‘Okay, let’s have another one.’ She pauses. ‘But then I need to know.’

Mark is on the phone, the twins are napping, Sarah is watching Mr Squiggle. Lou and I sit together, spent. I try to think of tasks, but there’s truly nothing to do. That’s the thing about floods. You move your belongings, help your friends if you can, and then you wait. And wait. Wait to see what will survive, what’s changed, what’s destroyed.

Our power’s gone out, so I can’t run the washing machine, but the linen cupboard would benefit from attention. Perhaps I can work on folding the troublesome fitted sheets that look like cotton boulders no matter how I tackle them. That would be something.

I turn to ask Lou what she thinks and see she’s crying without sound. Tear trails mark her face, and her chin has scrunched up into a hill of dimples and pores.

‘Oh, Lou.’ I reach for her hand and hold it in mine. Our skin, tacky from the heat, melds. ‘It’ll be okay. We’ll fix your house. And you can stay here as long as you need to.’

She wails. Mark comes into the living room, sits on the other side of Lou and puts his arm around her – warm and hairy from the elbow down, powder-dry white cotton above – on top of mine. I smell his musky deodorant, notice that he’s shaved. He’s antsy. I can see from his face he’s as frustrated as I am by being trapped here.

‘Did you find someone with a boat?’ I ask.

‘Not yet.’ He pats Lou’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. The rain will stop before the end of the week.’

Lou’s wail rises.

‘The end of the week?’ I glare at him. He mouths, ‘What?’

Lou will not be soothed. She sobs loudly, lists things that will have been destroyed by the water – the dining table given to her by her grandmother, the kids’ beds. ‘The car!’ She shrieks at the realisation. I murmur vague reassurances.

‘How about you lie down for a while?’ Mark says. ‘Get some rest.’

She takes a jerky breath. ‘Okay, yeah.’

He stands, helps Lou up, and walks her down the hallway.

Mark is working on a story about the Whiskey Au Go Go. He was convinced, when the nightclub was firebombed in March last year, killing fifteen people, that the case against the two men arrested was shaky and, after seeing the way they reacted at their trial in October, he’s sure they’re innocent. Mark has hushed, urgent phone conversations with his producer, and disappears for hours to interview sources. When he tells me about his story he jigs his knee. Last week he told me he’s convinced that the police fabricated evidence against Finch and Stuart.

‘Don’t they have real evidence?’

‘Not enough to convict. But the lead detective is sure they’re guilty, and needs to make that appear credible while he gets some solid evidence.’

‘But they admitted they did it.’