I’M SPEEDING THROUGH the city, forcing the USB cable into my phone, playing ‘Alive’ by Pearl Jam. If I interrogate the way I’m drawn to these songs, this music from my late teens, I might conclude that it takes me back to the last time I was truly content, a time when my parents were still together and I could do and be whatever I wanted. Then university happened and I was locked on this path, hoping to impress my father with my grades, always telling him I was doing better than I was. Telling him I was topping my classes and impressing my tutors, when in reality I was middling, passing with Bs and Cs. Then I was thrust into the profession, cutting my teeth as a case manager. Soon after that Peter died.

I thump the wheel with my palm. It’s happened again: I’ve gotten too familiar with a client. But this time it’s different. Still, I berate myself; why did I meet him? Why did I go there?

I’m almost home when I notice the white Toyota. I see Joe, his huge lumbering figure in the driver’s seat. He’s right behind me. He’s following. What if he saw me at the bar? What if he saw the kiss? I glance up again. He’s closer still, speeding up. Then the car indicates and turns off. I breathe again. It’s not Joe – it’s no one.

I pull myself out of the car with my bag, climbing up towards the house. The moment I open the door, the regret of the past ninety minutes grows deeper, a yawning chasm in my gut. Gabe rushes towards me. If he found out it would kill him.

‘Did something happen?’ he says, peering at my face, eyes narrowed. ‘It’s after seven.’ Can he smell the wine?

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, glancing towards the kids on the couch.

‘Alright,’ Gabe says. ‘Let’s eat dinner, shall we?’

I go to the sink and fill a glass of water. Standing there drinking it, I revisit that night, after Peter had hung up the phone. I arrived at his apartment and saw the police cordon, the flashing lights ahead. I drove towards them, but an officer raised his hand, indicating for me to slow down. I turned in hard against the curb, opened my door and climbed out.

Cones were lined up. I saw three police cars and an ambulance. Peter had been right, he’d either be going to jail or for a long stay supervised in a hospital. Neither place was ideal for someone like him. A bipolar man who was otherwise well adjusted, except when he had episodes.