I walk past an old man sitting outside a trailer about three along but I don’t feel like approaching him. Partly because he keeps giving me funny looks, and partly because he has a massive dog on a chain. I can’t see any neighbours other than him. So what do I do now? I sit down on a plastic chair which seems to be randomly in the middle of the path, and heave a big sigh.

‘Are you visiting with someone?’ says Jeff, who has followed me without comment.

‘No. I mean, yes, but he’s been evicted.’ I gesture at the notice on the door. ‘I want to find out where he’s gone.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Jeff digests this for a few moments.

‘I was hoping to speak to a neighbour,’ I explain. ‘I thought I could get a forwarding address or something …’

‘Uh-huh,’ says Jeff again, then nods at the trailer. ‘He might be in there. Back door’s open.’

What? That hadn’t even occurred to me. Maybe he’s come back. Maybe Dad’s in there with him! In excitement, I hurry to the trailer door and bang on it.

‘Hello?’ I call. ‘Brent? Are you there?’

There’s a pause, then the door swings open. But it’s not Brent. It’s a girl. She’s a little older than me, I’d say, with wavy sandy hair and a freckled, weatherbeaten face. She has pale-blue eyes and a nose ring and an unfriendly expression. I can smell toast and hear Michael Jackson’s ‘Beat It’ playing faintly in the background.

‘What?’ she says.

‘Oh, hi,’ I say hesitantly. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’

A little dog comes running out of the door and licks my toes. He’s a Jack Russell, and he’s wearing the cutest lime-green harness.

‘Gorgeous!’ I say, and squat to pat him. ‘What’s he called?’

‘Scooter.’ The girl doesn’t unbend a millimetre. ‘What do you want?’

‘Oh. Sorry.’ I rise up and give her a polite smile. ‘How do you do?’ I extend a hand and she cautiously takes mine. ‘I’m looking for someone called Brent Lewis. Do you know him?’

‘That’s my dad.’

‘Oh!’ I exhale in relief. ‘Great! Well, he was a friend of my father, and I think my dad’s gone off looking for him, but I don’t know where’s he’s headed.’

‘Who’s your dad?’

‘Graham Bloomwood.’

It’s as though I’ve said ‘the Antichrist’. Her whole body jolts in shock. But her eyes stay on mine, unwavering. There’s a gimletty hardness to them which is starting to freak me out. What’s wrong? What have I said?

‘Your dad is Graham Bloomwood?’ she says at last.

‘Yes! Do you know him?’ I say tentatively.

‘So, what, you’ve come here to gloat? Is that it?’

My mouth falls open a little. Have I missed something here?

‘Er … gloat?’ I echo, at last. ‘No. Why would I come here to gloat?’

‘Who’s that guy?’ Her eyes suddenly fix on Jeff.

‘Oh. Him.’ I cough, feeling a bit embarrassed. ‘He’s my bodyguard.’

‘Your bodyguard.’ She gives a bitter, incredulous laugh and shakes her head. ‘Figures.’