“As a matter of fact, I dreamt I was living with a family in Australia. In the Outback. We were hunted by dingoes and crocodiles and killer snakes.”

“Sounds terrifying.”

“I loved it.”

She takes a sip. “So, you’re seeing Dr. Auger again tomorrow?”

Cuts to the chase, does Frankie.

“Do I have a choice?”

Frankie moves to the stove. The ingredients are prepped and waiting in glass bowls: chives, eggs and grated cheese. She’s making omelettes and I know what they’ll be like—runny in the centre, burnt brown at the edges.

“I don’t get it,” she says, cracking an egg.

“What’s to get?”

“Your school isn’t free, Ana. And who’s paying the medical bill? You? Your father? But you don’t think about that, do you? The universe only exists for you.”

“So…you’re saying, I’m a solipsist?”

“A what?”

“A person who believes only the self exists, or can be proved to exist. So, the world, and everything in it, is just an invention of their subconscious mind. Technically, that makes you a figment of my imagination. I made you up, Frankie.”

She shakes her head, works the spatula. “If only you applied that brain. You’re a straight-A student, Ana. And now you’re getting into fights?”

“We didn’t start it.”

“We. That Beatrice Gold.”

“She saved my arse, Frankie. If it wasn’t for her—”

“A girl’s in hospital, Ana. Shattered collarbone, broken nose, you name it. I mean, really! Sometimes I don’t know who you are anymore.”

Frankie sighs. The pan sizzles.

“I take it you’re not offering a lift,” I say.

“I don’t have the time,” Frankie says. “This one’s important.”

“Right.” I watch Zig’s attempt to squeeze out of his high chair. Fifteen gargantuan years lie between us. That, and a different surname. Ziggy Thorn.

“I’ve been working on it for months,” Frankie says. “You know that.”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it.”

Ziggy worms out of the chair’s harness and now he’s a few short moves from cracking his skull open on the hard marble floor. I stand and mooch around the table, shove Zig upright in the chair, clip him in properly and return to my seat.

Flip. Scrape. Flip. Frankie sees nothing of this.

“You act like you got the worst deal in the universe,” she says.

“Where’s the proof I didn’t? It’s logically and mathematically possible I did get the worst deal. Someone must have. Why not me?”

“I give up. I really do.”

“Well, now you know where I get it from.”

“This is your father’s fault.”

“Can’t argue with that. It could be the Old Man’s fault.”

The Old Man. Michael Moon. Aka Dad—which, if Moon legend is anything to go by, I’ve declined to call him from birth.