‘I know it’s difficult right now, Ally.’ Ms Nouri is known as one of the most genuinely sympathetic teachers at school. ‘Do your best, that’s all. You’ve got roughly two months to go, keep that in mind.’

Brooke raises her hand. Ms Nouri doesn’t like us to do that, but habits are hard to break. ‘Miss, who were those men in the lobby earlier?’

Ms Nouri combs her fringe flat with her fingers, looking nervous. She never talks down to us, and that’s why everyone likes her.

‘I was told they were gentlemen from the Sexual Crimes Squad.’ Her face takes a funny turn; she regrets being so honest. It shuts everyone up.

Arnold and I run our usual route, along the Renfrew Street strip of shops, past the mini-mart, the servo and the medical clinic. Most places are preparing to close.

I move onto the gravel shoulder of the road. There’s still peak-hour traffic rushing past, and it’s not the safest place to jog, but I keep going. The more my legs hurt the more I can forget that train wreck of a conversation in Art class. Broken glass from bottles and old car accidents hides among the small stones, and I have to ignore two guys in a ute, who slow down beside me and whistle and try to get me to look at them.

‘Nice dog!’ one of them yells.

It’s unclear whether they’re referring to Arnold or me.

My legs ache but I’m already enjoying the rhythmic huh-huh of my breath, and the cold pinching my cheeks. I’m so glad to be back in crappy Morrison Heights and far away from school. The entire year level has been suspended precariously between crying and hysterical laughter all week. Every time the PA crackles we all jump a mile, like we’re about to receive the worst news.

The most difficult thing is that there hasn’t been any news about Yin at all.

A car screeches loudly behind me, and then shoots past, a leering face pressed against the rear window. Arnold strains at his leash. I pretend I’m one of Sam’s superheroes, the kind that can achieve full invisibility.

By the time we reach the park, my tracksuit pants are rubbing against my sweaty thighs. I used to walk Arnold in my school uniform, before I accepted that he has one speed only: full tilt. So now I wear my oldest pair of tracky daks and my sneakers. Arnold goes wild the moment I pull his lead out of the cupboard.

At the entrance to the park I almost collide with another jogger—a guy my age in high-tech leggings and earphones.

‘Hey!’ he says, not bothered by our near-collision. ‘Evening!’

I frown in return. He’s not puffing at all, while I sound like a malfunctioning steam train.