One day he lost control. It began with a low keening that turned into a sort of howl, and then he shouted, ‘It’s just another name for murder!’ He grabbed his stick and started beating off invisible assailants. The stick caught on a chair and overturned it. Dalma was there at once. She touched his elbow, and he dropped his stick. At a sign from her, the barista brought over a fresh cup of coffee. The old man was pouring out a torrent of muttered words. Dalma picked up the fallen chair and sat on it. When I left, she was still holding his hand across the table. I heard her tell him, ‘It’s your time to shine.’ That’s the kind of thing she says.

Before everything went electronic, the Department used to provide me with a motivational desk calendar. The first thing I’d do on arriving at work was to flip over the page and read my message for the day. Those messages were read by office workers all over the country, yet each one seemed to speak to the individual heart. Their spirit lives on in Dalma. ‘You’ve done amazing,’ she tells a young woman reeling towards despair because a child has hurled the sachets of sugar to the floor. We all come away from Dalma comforted, renewed, armed for the struggle by her words.

The shouting incident took place months ago, and I haven’t seen the old man since. I long to ask Dalma what he told her and if she knows what’s become of him, but I’m sure that she wouldn’t say. If I were granted a wish, I’d ask for Dalma to sit there across from me, holding my hand, while I unburdened myself of everything on my mind. At the end she’d say, ‘Everything happens for the best’ or ‘You’ve done amazing’ – something I need to hear, something ordinary and kind.

I remember when Markus joined the Department, appointed to head up Tech. Markus was Danish and had just arrived in Australia. Who would have guessed? Markus was so tall and had such yellow, abundant hair and spoke such faultless English. All the way home on the train, I felt envious of Danes. They possess what every immigrant longs for: invisibility. No one would spit at Markus in the street or shout abuse at him from a car. If a pandemic spread outwards from Scandinavia, no one would chuck a brick through his window or beat him up on a train. He wouldn’t have to keep his gaze on the floor in a supermarket since eye contact can be taken for arrogance. Danes could be captaining football teams and reading the evening news and running outback roadhouses, and no one would suspect a thing.