The wind had picked up since dark, which was strange because normally it dropped at night. But now it droned on, incessant in its drive to go nowhere in particular. Sometimes it tossed the leaves of the gum tree against the tin roof, making Zara jump every time. In between that, the kitchen was quiet, the only noise being the ticking of the old clock Zara had given her mum for Christmas when she was eight. It sounded like the beat of Will’s heart. But maybe it was too strong for that. The staccato beat reminded her that her brother’s life was slipping away with every tick.

More than forty-eight hours had passed since he’d last spoken to them and they had come to the realisation they would never hear his voice again. That had brought a fresh round of tears. It made Zara want to ring him and hear his cheery voice on the message bank, but she was afraid she would break down altogether if she did that.

It was 2.33 am. The witching hour. She thought of a quote she’d read recently: ‘Three am is the hour of writers, painters, poets, musicians, silence seekers and creative people.’ At the time she’d thought that was beautiful. But it’s also the time people are waiting for loved ones to die,’ she thought.

Tick, tock, tick, tock…

‘Oh, shut up!’ She grabbed a chair and dragged it to the wall. She climbed up and took out the clock battery, throwing it on the floor. At once the kitchen was still. ‘Thank fuck for that.’

Zara boiled the kettle and made two fresh mugs of steaming tea. In the bedroom the glow from the dim nightlight gave Will’s shrunken face a ghoulish appearance. The cancer was eating him alive and there was nothing anyone could do. His handsome features had melted away down to the thin layer of pale skin now stretched taut across his bony face.

Putting down the drinks on the bedside table in among the bottles of pills and tissues, she gazed down at her brother. Perhaps it was time he let go. There was no coming back from here. She picked up his hand and held it close to her heart. ‘It’s time, Will,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t need to stay any longer. I love you.’

Lynda was asleep in one of the comfortable lounge chairs. She was slumped forward, her face resting on the doona cover and her hand clasping the withered hand of her son.

‘Mum, Mum,’ Zara whispered as she gently shook her mother.

Lynda’s eyes flickered before focusing. ‘What time is it? Will?’ She sat up in alarm, her voice croaky from sleep.

‘He’s still with us, Mum. Here, I’ve made you a tea.’

‘Oh, thanks, love. Have you slept?’