Next we come around beside the Blue Lake, Lake Tikitapu. Small and round as a coin. Picnickers fill the crescent of sand at its side. I glance at Cain, see the lines of tension in his brow, his focus on the road.

We stop at the lake store with its unreliable opening hours and equally unreliable manager, Henry, who sells fishing flies and tackle beside pick ’n’ mix candy. He has a teddy-bear face and an accent a long way from home; my guess is Bulgaria, Cain’s is Denmark. Hard to say now; two decades in New Zealand will begin to flatten even the hardest of vowels.

When the bell over the door chimes, he looks up from the freezer.

‘Look who is in town,’ he says, closing the glass lid and handing an ice-cream over the counter to a waiting child. A squawk of delight.

‘Lina. Haven’t seen you guys in a while?’ he says, rolling the sleeves of his plaid shirt back down. ‘And…’ he pauses, searching his memory. My phone vibrates. A sharp prick at the back of my neck.

‘Cain,’ Cain says beside me. ‘My name’s Cain.’

I glance down at the message on my phone.

Why don’t you guess?

I feel sick. It can’t be Daniel, how would he have my number?

‘That’s right, Cain. Welcome, welcome. Down for the weekend?’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘We’re just setting our place up for WeStay actually.’

Henry jabs at something stuck between his molars with his thumb before speaking again. ‘Mm, a few people doing that with their places these days.’

There’s a snort of derision from someone at one of the tables in the half of the store that functions as a cafe. I turn back, see an old man sitting alone. Fishing hat on, paper opened in front of him. His shirt hasn’t seen the inside of a washing machine in some time. When I meet his eyes, he doesn’t look away. His lips are curled down in a snarl beneath his long, hooked nose. I glance away to a couple at another table, who are looking down at a map on their table. She’s white blonde and he has that backpacker fuzz over his cheeks and jaw. Do they leave their warm European countries with scraggy beards or grow them when they arrive here?

‘We might grab a bite,’ Cain says. I turn back.

‘Yeah, go for it. Take a seat.’ Henry flicks a hand towards the tables. ‘I’ll bring over menus.’

The eyes of the old man in the bucket hat keep falling on us. Cain has his back to him but if he could see the looks being sent our way he would say something, I’m sure. I turn my attention back to my phone, rereading the messages before deleting them.

A little while later, Henry places our food before us. ‘Bon appetit,’ he says, giving a tiny bow.