It’s a twenty-minute drive back into town. We pass through the east-side stretch of shops. The service station is open, the forecourt brightly lit but the bakery is shut up, the cabinets empty. Taua’s Hardware is closed for good, but the sign is still there, the logo a ghost on the fading white paint. Some of the windows are smashed, others covered with graffiti-scrawled plywood. At the DT there’s a row of parked cars, a couple of blokes smoking in the fenced-in outdoor section. They’re staring at whatever is on the screen inside. I pull up and they glance over, regarding us. Words and smirks pass between them when we climb out of the car, then they turn back. One of the two wears crocs and tattered shorts. On his stained t-shirt I read, I don’t need Google, My wife knows everything. The other wears a t-shirt that simply displays the label for Waikato Draught.

•

We eat on the bar side, it’s cheaper and the food comes out faster. I am a spider caught outside of her lair, shifty, cautious and watching everyone moving around me. If we bump into Daniel, what would I do? Pretend I’ve never seen him? And if he produces my wedding ring?

I order a salad and Cain opts for the fish and chips. When the door opens, I swivel my head back. It’s a couple of old boys. As they pass us one of them pauses, openly staring at Cain. My entire body tenses.

‘Cleaver,’ he exclaims. ‘That you?’

Cain’s eyes simply rise from his meal. Then slowly he swings his head towards the man.

The man looks uncertain, then speaks again. ‘Coach Ruatara.’

‘Oh right,’ Cain says, stretching his hand out. ‘Been a long time.’

Coach Ruatara turns to his friend. ‘Had him as a teenager at Sunnybrook High,’ he says. ‘Could have been an All Black.’

‘Is that right?’

‘No,’ Cain speaks on an exhale. ‘Never had it in me.’

‘Chose the army instead,’ Coach Ruatara says it like it’s the highest praise, a man giving up the glory of professional sport to serve his country. Cain squirms in the heat lamp of public admiration. ‘Still got the one hundred metre record at school, most of the athletic records actually. Pretty clever too,’ he says. ‘You still playing?’

‘No.’ Cain thumps his knee with his palm. ‘Picked up an injury.’

The man looks grave. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Of course. Tough going over there in Iraq.’

Afghanistan. Cain doesn’t correct him, he simply raises his eyebrows in agreement.

‘You must be proud.’

It takes me a moment to realise he’s talking to me. ‘Yep,’ I say. ‘Very proud.’

‘I’m still coaching at school there, always looking for more help with some of the younger teams. And you’ll probably have kids of your own coming through soon.’