Silence fell. I knew what he wanted to ask. He wanted to ask if I was all right. It was the question that hung in the air whenever we spoke. Are you all right, Rob? Are you all right, Dad? I guess we were afraid to take the lid off that sump.

‘On Sunday I’m having lunch at a friend’s place,’ I said at last. This piece of news was guaranteed to please my dad, who’d suggested I join the Country Women’s Association. ‘Deb invited me. You remember her?’

‘Oh, yes.’ His voice warmed up. Deb had been looking after me ever since I’d arrived. She’d made me a cake, taken me shopping and introduced me to a lot of mothers with young children. Dad approved of Deb. ‘That’s nice of her. You’ve been lucky there,’ he said.

‘Yes. I have.’ In fact I’d been so lucky I was beginning to wonder. Was there an ulterior motive for Deb’s lavish welcome? Was she a church-going missionary on the trawl for sinners? ‘I’ll take a salad. My walnut salad. It’s a barbecue.’

‘Sounds good.’ A distant siren wailed. ‘What’s that?’

‘Police, maybe. Ambulance.’

‘Friday night.’

‘Mmm.’

‘What’s on for you tonight?’

‘A risk-management plan.’

I had to work out the strategies I’d be using to help Aaron—though I was flying blind without a proper diagnosis. Interoception activities, perhaps? Headphones? Certainly a time-out tent.

‘Shouldn’t you be putting your feet up?’ said Dad.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Okay—well, have a good evening.’

‘You too.’

‘I’m glad you’re settling in.’

Settling in. I’d done my best to settle in. I’d bought some potted plants. Repaired things around the house. Joined the local library. I’d done everything I was supposed to do, yet I still felt as if I’d been torn out by the roots and tossed on a compost heap.

Sitting at the kitchen table, I used Aaron’s risk-management plan to block out thoughts of my mangled marriage, my legal bills, and the apartment I’d loved, which was now in the process of being sold to someone else. I’d lost everything—my home, my husband, even my dog, because he wasn’t really my dog. He was Troy’s dog.

Strategic praise, I wrote. Clear instructions: i.e. traffic lights—red means no talking, orange means low-level talking.

I wasn’t aware, as I laboured over my report, that across town Aaron’s father Scott was becoming involved in his own traffic-light incident.

‘It was that Fryer kid—Angela McCall’s son. He ran a red light and when Scott Rooney pulled him over, he lost it.’