Dad leads us through the kitchen and out the back door, past the Hills hoist, to the decrepit chipboard shed near the compost heap. He opens the door and gestures like a fancy butler for me to step inside. I raise my eyebrows, because I’m pretty sure this is Jarrod’s reiki room, and you couldn’t pay me to spend time in it.

Nestled inside the shed is the perfect art studio.

The walls are freshly painted white. The floorboards are bare and already paint-spattered, with a threadbare Persian rug at one end. The windows have been washed and cleared of vines, letting in the natural light. There’s an easel and a card table. A beanbag and a milk crate with a water jug on it.

Dad flicks the switch near the door and the overhead light comes on.

‘We got the power fixed,’ he says. His expression is expectant, but my face has stiffened like a plaster cast and I turn away.

It could almost be a proper studio for a proper artist.

It’s too good for me. I don’t deserve it.

Dad starts bustling around the room. ‘You can stick things to the wall…I’ve got to find the old trestle table somewhere in the garage…I found the easel in hard rubbish, which was a stroke of luck.’

Mum leans the roll of paper against the wall. Her arm snakes around my shoulders. ‘It’s perfect, Jez,’ she says. ‘This is very thoughtful.’

She looks at me, and I’m embarrassed to feel my eyes well.

‘Let’s have a cuppa while Chloe unpacks some of her supplies.’

‘Don’t we have to get back?’ I push my glasses up and wipe my eyes. Mum’s shift starts at eight and she has to have dinner before she leaves.

‘We’ve still got time,’ she says and they exit.

I’m left alone in the terrifying white space with my own shaky potential.

I slowly unpack my suitcase—watercolour paints, brushes, masking tape, glue—and run through what I have left to do: pick the image, edit it, get it printed, perfect my hand tinting, and then tackle the final piece. And make sure the entire process is documented in my folio. Every decision and theme and symbol has to be justified and explained. Ms Nouri is big on that.

I’ve looked through all the photos I took on Saturday, my laptop whirring furiously as it tried to cope with the file sizes, and a lot of the pics are darker and gloomier than I’d planned. I didn’t get the lighting quite right and Natalia has disappeared into the background. I wish I could find time to do the photography elective next term; I would love to get better at this.

What amazes me is how calm Natalia looks in most of the frames, when in reality she was shaking all over, about to break apart.