I was surprised at the number of entries that were all about Aaron. He really dominated the narrative, eating up great chunks of time. I began to jot down the main points, sitting at my kitchen table as the clock ticked and the fridge hummed and moths gathered in the darkness outside, bumping against the windows.

The third call of the evening came at around nine o’clock, on the landline. I had to get up to answer it.

‘Hello?’

Silence.

‘Hello?’

Still nothing. Then a gentle click, followed by the dial tone.

Wrong number, I told myself. But I went straight to the window and drew the curtain. I also checked all the locks and turned on the porch light.

By the time I returned to my computer, I was angry. Really angry. I sat down and typed out the report Joyce had requested, starting with the date.

Today I saw three cockroaches on the floor of the hallway outside classroom 3B, I wrote.

They were in the vicinity of Aaron Rooney’s fallen sandwich. The hallway had been freely accessed that morning by thirty-threelower primary children, myself, Deborah Olsen, Patricia Haas, Kate Canning and Dixie Whitaker. I have observed no other cockroaches on the premises.

I added my name, printed out the paragraph and signed at the bottom.

‘Fuck you too, Joyce,’ I said.

That night I dreamed about my mother. It wasn’t the usual nightmare. Instead of being stuck behind a fence, watching the yellow freight train charge towards her, I was walking beside the track, holding her hand. She wore a filmy floral dress and my blue sandals. She was laughing. Singing. But I didn’t feel resentful, the way I did when I was in my early teens. I always used to hate how she would put the rest of us through hell, then turn around and laugh. It enraged me no matter how often Dad said it wasn’t her, it was her illness. It was so unfair. Why was I the one who constantly had to forgive and forget?

When I heard the screech of approaching freight cars, I tried to pull her away. She wouldn’t let me. ‘Come on!’ she said. ‘It’ll be fun!’ She wouldn’t let go of my hand. As the train barrelled down the line towards us, she stood there grinning, waiting for it to crush her.

I did the same, closing my eyes a split second before the inevitable impact.

2019

2019

SECTION ONE HELPED me cook dinner on Tuesday night. Jake wasn’t there; he was still wandering around the island. And Shaun was out looking for him.