‘Good job, Sar,’ he says, as we both crack open our beers.

She returns to the sprinkler.

Mark lifts his can to his lips. ‘Might get a pool out here, one of those plastic jobs.’

‘Grand idea. You mean for Christmas?’

‘I’m not brave enough to throw a wildcard into the Christmas plan.’

Sarah tires quickly of her play and sits on the concrete in front of us, water darkening the slab. Woof lies like a stringy wet mop beside her.

‘No work today? The world’s all good?’ I ask. I could tell him now. Right now. But I scan his face and am suddenly unsure if that’s a good idea. Maybe he wouldn’t think of anything Abby hasn’t. Maybe he wouldn’t feel her obligation to cover for me. I’m not one-hundred-per-cent sure of what he thinks of me. It’s a risk.

‘I’ve taken leave until tomorrow,’ Mark says. ‘I won’t abuse the privilege, but after my last story they’d let me write my own ticket. Did Abby tell you I’m being made executive producer next year?’

I clink cans with him. I try to act interested while Mark talks about his job. And then sport.

‘Are you able to keep up with the cricket over there?’ he asks. ‘Rained for weeks before, then they dried the wicket too fast. Even Lillee and Thomson struggled with it. Mostly I reckon we won the first Test because they left Boycott at home.’

‘We don’t have a TV.’ I don’t ask if boycott is a person or a style of play.

‘You’d have radio though.’

‘Sometimes. Most days, the outside world isn’t a pressing concern. Anything else been going on I should know about?’

He laughs. ‘Skylab came back in February, Nixon resigned in August, and we have the most dazzling cricketing side in decades. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ringing any bells?’

‘Nope. I’m up to speed with music though. Sal’s sister sends us tapes. And I’m keen to see a few movies while I’m here.’

‘Great,’ he says, watching as Sarah sits her wet self in the sandpit. ‘You can take Sarah to see Herbie Rides Again so I don’t have to.’

I have no idea who Herbie is or what he’s riding but I’m up for distractions. I should feel bad all the time, guilt-ridden twenty-four hours a day. But I’m too superficial to sustain that. Or else I have great coping mechanisms. I catch myself laughing at a joke on TV or something one of the kids says, hate myself, and then move on. It’s hard to hold any feeling nonstop, no matter how strong it is. I get waves of fear and guilt. But they pass. And I’m not sure who or what it would help if they didn’t.

I turn my head at the sound of the sliding door. Abby stands in the opening. She’s wearing a purple dress with gold stitching. ‘Charlie, can I talk to you?’

‘What’s up?’ Mark asks.

‘Dad stuff,’ she says.