It’s ours, yes, but technically I own it. He doesn’t have memories of rushing up and down the ladder that Grandpa built between rooms or sitting for hours out in the dinghy, hopelessly sinking fishing lines into the murky depths, or helping Grandma turn buckets of feijoas into jam. All those good memories but among them, loudest of all, is a bad one. Mum turning up, eyes bloodshot, haggard. The screaming. Grandma sweeping up the broken glass.

‘Cain, I’m not entirely comfortable with strangers going there,’ I say, with an even tone.

‘I know but can you consider it? We need the money, Lina, and we have outgoings for that house. We’ve got rates, insurance, utilities. We’re treading water as it is.’

‘Do we need money that bad?’ I press him, remembering the conversation I’d had with Claire the night before. I know the answer. Things are dire. We’re behind on rent, we may have no choice but to move to the lake house soon, find new jobs down in Rotorua.

‘I see it as a project, something to do while my business is getting off the ground.’ He spins around on the chair now, faces me. ‘I’ll manage it all, you won’t even know it’s happening.’

‘How will you manage it? Tarawera is three hours away.’

He smothers a yawn with the back of his hand. ‘I’ll make sure we only let people stay who have good ratings and reviews. I’ll organise a cleaner, lock our stuff away.’

‘Some things are more important than a quick buck.’

‘It’s not just about the money,’ he says. ‘I want to do something that makes me feel useful. I’m in a rut.’

‘I know, Cain,’ I say. It’s not just the money; the nightmares are back. He’s drinking a lot again. It’s the secrets, it’s Afghanistan. It’s the void of combat that almost nothing, no amount of love or care, can fill. Family is the only thing that can help, I think. A caring, interdependent network.

‘When summer comes around, I’ll be fully booked with work, but until then…’

Just a touch optimistic. Last summer, he raced to get the business started in time for all the ‘resolutionists’ who sign up for boot camps after Christmas. ‘Then,’ he had told me, ‘it’s just a matter of locking them into contracts.’ If only it had been that simple. His point of sale system malfunctioned, the website had the wrong phone number and for myriad other invisible reasons it never took off like he anticipated. I’d even helped him with his emails and booking in clients.