The Buried Village is a tourist spot where a small village once existed. Tarawera was a mountain long before it was a lake. A volcanic eruption one hundred and thirty years ago changed that. The eruption destroyed the eighth wonder of the world – the pink and white terraces, natural hot pools cascading down – and buried a village that’s since been partially excavated. That’s why everything is so lush here; volcanic soil is fertile, producing a galaxy of greens and browns. Explosions of ferns from ponga trees, and native bush crowding the lake’s edge.

Cain and I walk back down the road to our house. The leaves rotting in the shade on the gravel are treacherous slicks. I hide my hands in the pockets of my polar fleece as a southerly tears across the lake and tousles the ferns.

‘What should we do for dinner?’ he asks.

‘There’s no food in the house. But I’m not that hungry.’

‘I’m starving. Why don’t we go to the DT?’

It’s on the east side of town. The chance of bumping into Daniel in a town the size of Rotorua is extremely unlikely. I’ll keep my head down, be quick.

‘Sure, okay.’

‘Let me put a coat of stain on the deck then we can head off.’

We don’t often cook when we are in Tarawera. The DT, or the Downtown, is fifty percent restaurant, forty-five percent bar and five percent casino. The backroom houses three poker machines that are occupied all night and most of the day. There are signs that warn of the dangers of problem gambling, and a much bigger display with the current jackpot.

Cain has spent time there. Time and hundreds of dollars. He brought home more than scars and a stiff knee from Afghanistan. He still has his own old bank account, but I monitor the business account and our joint accounts closely. It doesn’t look like he’s been gambling lately.

Soon enough he’s finished with the deck. When he comes inside a dark patch of stain sits near his elbow like a birthmark, and blood trickles from above his left eye.

‘What happened?’

‘The old scar above my eye, just takes a small bump to open it up again.’ He cleans it with a warm flannel, holds a folded paper towel to it until the bleeding stops.

‘I’d be a hopeless boxer,’ he says.