I watch Sam herd the peas from his fried rice to one side of his plate, mumbling to himself. My own lemon chicken is a suspect shade of yellow, but tastes as MSG-good as ever. Maybe we can watch a movie when we get home. I let Sam watch MA-rated movies and stay up past 9 p.m. when Mum’s not around. I told him about our self-defence class and now he wants to do a Bruce Lee marathon.

I should feel like a loser for preferring to hang out with my ten-year-old brother than go to a party, but I don’t.

I switch Mum’s camera on and fill the viewfinder with my radioactive yellow dinner, Sam’s plate lurking in the background as red, white and green blotches. Snap. I try again, turning the wheel to macro and getting up real close. Mum’s camera does not cope well with low light. There’s no way I’ll be able to hold it steady enough.

When I look up at the flat screen again the grainy CCTV footage of Yin is playing, both bits. This morning the news sites started showing the same convenience store incident, but from a different camera. From the new angle you can see the flannel shirt guy a little bit better.

I can’t look away from it, as if somehow this time the video might be different.

The newsreader comes back on, but it’s impossible to know what she’s saying. Maybe she’s saying this is definitely the guy we’re looking for. Maybe someone will call the police tonight and say they recognise him. Maybe that will lead them to a house in a far-out suburb, and we’ll wake up tomorrow and find out that it’s over; they’ve found the creep and rescued Yin. Maybe then I can stop checking doors and windows and running through my dwindling list of reasons to stay at Balmoral.

‘I talked to Dad today,’ says Sam, out of nowhere.

‘Good for you.’ I push my plate away. A layer of congealed skin has formed over the lemon sauce. ‘Are you done?’

Sam skids in his slippery shoes all the way to the bargain games shop. I give him twenty minutes and twenty dollars of my own money. That kid has no idea how much I do for him.

The shopping centre is swarming: teenagers cruising each other, security cameras, security guards. Peace descends for the first time this week. I’m a bee in a swarm, a particle, part of a larger pattern. I have no separate thoughts or significant problems. I wander the corridors with Mum’s camera held in front of me, looking around for colours and patterns.

The tubs of jelly cups and coconut water at the Asian grocer become abstract and psychedelic if you get close enough, the reflections in the window of the brow bar fragment the customers inside, the aisles of the discount chemist warehouse are stark and artificial. I take photos of hair-netted women speed-folding dumplings in a restaurant window and old men gathered in the Greek coffee shop with their walking sticks hooked onto the table.