‘All right. Hear that? Stay off the broken toilet.’ Shaun’s brisk nod told me I could leave if I wanted. He knew I had things to do. Emails to answer. A wheelbarrow to unload.

But I couldn’t drag myself away. Not until I was sure.

‘On this island you gentlemen are my platoon and I am your platoon commander,’ Shaun went on. ‘We’ll be dividing you into sections. Those in the front row will be section one. I’ll be your section commander and Mr Burgin will be your 2IC.’ He nodded at Rhys. ‘Section two is in the back. Your commander will be Mr Doyle…’ This time he aimed the nod at Warren. ‘…and your 2IC will be Mr Malouf over there. You will address all the officers as sir.’ Raising his voice over a low mutter of protest, Shaun snapped, ‘Mr King! Eyes on me, please!’

Darren looked up with a scowl—and that scowl made my heart sink.

‘Mr King, we don’t stare at the ground in this platoon. We look people in the eye because we have respect. Respect for ourselves and respect for each other.’ Shaun studied the ragtag collection of teenagers in front of him. Then he said, ‘But respect isn’t a right. You have to earn it. That’s why I want you to empty your bags.’

There was a stunned silence. At last the boy with the phone cried, ‘You can’t do that!’ He had flawless skin and thick, floppy hair so beautifully cut that I decided he must have well-off parents. The only thing marring his perfection was a slightly beaky nose.

‘On the contrary, Mr Henderson, we can. Your parents signed a contract to that effect.’ Shaun began to pace up and down, pausing to lock eyes with every camper in the front row. ‘Bags. Emptied. Now.’

‘Fuck this.’ It was the kid who’d stormed off the jetty. Shane?…No, Dean. His hair hung in ratty little plaits or dreadlocks—I wasn’t sure exactly what they were, but they probably didn’t need much maintenance. He was nearly as tall as Rhys, raw-boned, gangly and wild-looking.

He started walking away.

‘Report back here, Mr Hoegel!’ Shaun’s voice cracked through the air like a whip, but the kid kept moving.

‘There’s nowhere to go, Dean,’ Warren weighed in. ‘We’re on an island.’

Dean ignored him. So Shaun nodded at Rhys, who snapped to attention and charged off like an obedient sheepdog.

By this time several younger boys were dumping the contents of their packs onto the ground: socks, sunscreen, pyjamas, iPads, chargers, earbuds—even a comic book. Joe began to collect all the technology, which he placed in a plastic bin. My plastic bin.