At first I thought it was just the cold, but then I realised it was more than that. It looked like shock, like sadness, like everything bad hitting her all at once. Something was wrong with her, something more than the stress that we’re all feeling. I don’t know her well enough to guess what it could have been, though.

All I could do was crouch next to her and let her know I was there. Maybe I should have asked her what it was about. In the end, we packed up and went to lunch, as if nothing had happened.

I zip up the empty suitcase and check my phone. We need to get moving. I turn off the light and carefully shut the door.

DAY 48

The librarian hands me the stack of books and my knees buckle under their unexpected weight. Somehow I manage to also grab onto the pencils he offers. Pens are forbidden in the State Library Heritage Collections Reading Room, as if they’re used to people forgetting they’re handling rare items and doodling in the margins.

I pick a table next to the wall, right at the back. I’m the youngest person in here by far. To my right a polished woman in hijab pores over a folder full of handwritten letters, in front of me a man with silver hair examines a map with a magnifying glass.

There’s a clock high up on the wall, above the check-in desk. My print won’t be ready to pick up for another two hours.

The photo lab assistant was patient while I decided on paper, explaining the pros and cons of each, and the price per centimetre. I didn’t realise I’d have to pay a rush fee, but I agreed, because I have to spend next week tinting and finalising my piece. I was already too embarrassed by how little I knew about the process.

I could fill the time proofreading the International Studies essay that I rushed through yesterday, but instead I’ve got three hard-to-find Bill Henson monographs in front of me, the sort of thing you would definitely never find at the Morrison Heights public library, and that you can’t even find at Balmoral.

When I crack the first book open, the one that covers Henson’s earlier work, I’m f looded with excitement. The paper is thick and glossy, the images shadowy, deep, inviting.

I turn pages through hazy ballet classes, haughty schoolgirls in straw hats, a lone house in the woods, downturned faces in the street, a little girl wearing her mother’s pearls, an erect nipple, ruined buildings, dilapidated glamour, petrol stations, burning houses, city lights.

My mind settles into the same flowing hum as it does when I jog. I move onto the next book, and the next.