That’s why I always woke early when Shaun was around. I couldn’t sleep through the wails of protest from the dormitory. By six-thirty on Monday morning I knew I would have to get up, so I did. Then I had a quick shower, threw on my clothes and shoved a bowl of instant oats into the microwave.

I was swallowing my first mouthful of coffee when someone knocked on the front door.

‘Robyn?’ Shaun’s voice was muffled. ‘Are you up?’

I wondered what had gone wrong. There had been a slight commotion just a few minutes earlier, but I’d figured it was a tantrum. Or a snake. Or a disagreement over toothbrushes.

As I trudged down the hall, I glimpsed my reflection in one of the framed photographs of former inmates and realised I hadn’t dried or plaited my hair. It hung limply to my elbows like a wet towel.

‘Hang on!’ I had to throw the bolt one-handed because I was still holding my coffee cup. By the time I opened the door, Shaun was shouting at a knot of kids near the men’s bathroom.

‘Don’t go in there!’ he yelled. ‘Stay back!’

‘What’s up?’ I asked.

He swung around to face me. ‘Sorry, Robyn. We’ve got a plumbing issue.’

My heart sank. ‘Someone used the broken toilet?’

‘No.’ He began to retreat down the steps and I followed him—past the dining hall, across the parade ground, all the way to the men’s bathroom. It was a beautiful morning. Gulls wheeled. Magpies warbled. There was a heavy dew.

But I didn’t like the atmosphere. It seemed tense. Some of the boys stood on the grass, clutching soap and towels, looking bewildered. Others were twitchy with excitement.

A few were absent.

Rhys was stationed at the door of the men’s bathroom. He stepped aside to let me in, then moved off to help Joe. I could hear rushing water as I stepped over the threshold.

‘Fuck,’ I said, before I could stop myself.

The bathrooms on Finch Island had once been all concrete slabs and rust stains. Now they boasted shiny chrome fittings, mosaic feature tiles and floor-to-ceiling walls between the shower cubicles. The toilets were shielded by heavy wooden doors. A bank of basins stood opposite the entrance to each building.

The men’s bathroom had urinals; the women’s had sanitary bins.

‘There was toilet paper blocking the drain, but I moved it,’ said Shaun.

The floor was awash. One of the basin supply lines—a flexi-hose—had been separated from its stop tap. And the stop tap had been separated from the wall.

‘Looks to me like someone kicked the connection. Hard,’ Shaun continued. ‘I didn’t know where to shut it off, so I thought it would be quicker if you did.’