Woof scrambles down to the car first and jumps up to greet Abby. He shrinks down under Dad’s too-hard pat.

Sarah comes clomping out of the house to greet us, long hair swinging loose, wearing a t-shirt, undies, knee-high white socks and Abby’s clogs. Abby bends down and hugs her, and by the time she gets up, Mark’s standing before her, arms out for his own hug.

‘Hi. Why is Sarah wearing her pyjama top?’ She wraps her arms around his waist.

‘We missed you.’ Mark kisses her. He slaps my back. ‘Welcome home. I’m keen to hear about life in paradise.’ Then he looks to Dad. ‘John, how are you holding up? I wish we could’ve met her.’

Dad gives a small nod of acknowledgement, turns his attention to Sarah. ‘Who is this young lady? And what have you done with my granddaughter?’

‘Ha, ha.’ Sarah reaches for his hand.

‘And where are your sister and brother?’

She seems disappointed by his ignorance. ‘They’re asleep, of course. Little kids sleep all the time.’

‘How was the drive?’ Mark asks Abby.

‘Long. And it’s leaking oil again. But, hon, why is she in her pyjamas? It’s two o’clock.’

‘She’s in a t-shirt,’ he says, pulling my backpack onto his shoulder. ‘A shirt is a shirt. John, go on inside and pour yourself a drink. Charlie and I’ve got this.’

‘It’s says Time for Bed on the front.’

‘Abby.’ Mark puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘Relax. It’s all good.’

Ignoring Mark’s offer, Dad carries his suitcase and pillow out of the carport across the wooden-sleeper pathway to the front door, with Sarah clop-clopping behind him. Mark and Abby follow behind me till we’re all standing around a pile of belongings in the hallway.

‘I’ve set up the camp bed in the spare room,’ Mark says. ‘You and Charlie can sleep in there, if that’s okay with you, John. Real bed’s yours.’

Dad and I haven’t shared a room since Christmas before last, and I’m sure he’d prefer some space of his own. I would’ve been happy on the couch. It occurs to me that he knew Skye back then, and didn’t say a word, didn’t bring her here.

‘So, Miss Sarah,’ Dad says. ‘What’ve you asked Santa to bring you?’

‘A unicorn,’ Sarah replies.

‘They’re hard to come by, even for Santa Claus.’

‘He can get anything.’

Dad and I look at one another.

‘Christmas morning’s going to be interesting,’ I say.

‘Show me the tree,’ Dad says to Sarah. ‘I hear you’ve made it extra special this year.’

Sarah leads the three of us to the sunny living room, Mark and Abby having wandered off somewhere. Dad and I sit on an L-shaped brown couch – ‘New,’ Sarah says, ‘no shoes allowed.’ The couch shares the room with a lacquered pine coffee table, pottery vases and cane baskets all from the same sliver of the colour wheel. Sarah stands beside the tree – a vision of disco glitz – points out various decorations, and moves a couple around. When she’s done with the tree, she clambers onto Dad’s lap with a paper star she’s fancied up with lumpy glue and glitter.