The jogger is a park regular, I see him out most evenings. He’s cute too. Not my type—too sporty—but cute. Once I’m sure he’s crossed the road, I turn and check out his springy stride. The leggings cut his muscles into defined areas.

The park is emptier than usual. The light is fading and the grass is already wet with dew. It was a mistake to do my homework first. Sometimes I run with earbuds in, but not tonight. If someone comes up behind me, I want to hear them.

We pound the train path, down the hill and across the creek. I think about how the jogger probably plays football (deal breaker), and how Brandon from my old school is ruining his near-genius brain with pot, and how the Grammar boys on the tram are way too clean-cut and not inclined to slum it, not that I need anyone’s pity lust anyway.

‘You’ll marry me, won’t you, Arnold? If I get to thirty and don’t have anyone?’

Arnold gallops and pants inappropriately and doesn’t answer, as usual.

This is what I know about this park: no one has ever been raped in it, but there was a flasher here when I was in Grade Six.

Arnold doesn’t mind the way the trees crowd thickly on either side of the path, creating shadows where a person could hide. Hide and then leap out, pulling an arm tight against my throat, feet kicking against air.

The bridge clangs as we thump over it. I squint into the distance. A figure crests the hill ahead. I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman.

Normally the park brings me a small sense of peace, even though it’s pretty basic as far as parks go. The train line runs the length of it at the top of a high embankment, and to the right is a lumpy paddock criss-crossed with paths and the creek. The park sits on top of a waste site: rusted barrels and broken concrete blocks still poke through the green. Some of the blocks look like grey french fries scattered among the ti-trees.

I consider turning back, but the view from the top of the hill makes the pain of running worth it. If I let myself get scared, then it means another victory for the evil people of the world. Still, I fish my keys out of my waistband pocket and grip them so they poke out for maximum stabbing potential.

Stop being irrational, I tell myself. You’re in no greater danger today than before Yin was taken.

As we get closer I can see that the mystery person is a man in a suit, probably on his way home from work. Not many men wear suits around here. Suit-wearers are supposed to be respectable, but more importantly, they sit at desks day after day and are probably unfit.