“Did she come here alone?” I ask.

“No. She came with Sally.”

Sally and Raj are talking, further down the row. They’re angled towards each other so as to exclude anyone else from their conversation, but their bodies aren’t touching. As they chat, the backs of their hands touch and they intertwine their fingers. It’s a small but intimate gesture. Sally senses me watching and slips her hand from Raj’s. He looks at her in surprise and then sees what Sally sees – me watching them – and takes a step away from her.

“What is it?” Johan looks at me curiously then towards Sally and Raj. They nod hello. Johan nods back.

“Emma?” He looks back at me. “What did you see?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because we’re on patrol.”

“What for?”

“Gaps or holes in the fence, any attempts at breaking in.” He gestures away from the river and towards the fence. There are flaming torches every couple of metres, but the majority of the perimeter is shrouded in darkness. “Isaac seems to think we’re in danger from the people who attacked Gabe and Ruth.”

He sets off without waiting for a reply, striding off towards the orchard. I remain where I am. Making polite conversation with him in full view of the others is one thing, but disappearing into the night alone with him is another. He was instrumental in turning Daisy against me, and I don’t trust him, no matter how laid-back and friendly Al may think he is. Still, he might be able to answer some of the questions I don’t want to ask Isaac. I wait a few minutes, then head slowly after him.

We walk in silence for five or ten minutes, striding around the perimeter of the retreat, only pausing so Johan can investigate small gaps in the fencing or unusual objects on the ground. So far, he’s deposited a pink flip-flop, a trowel and a small piece of wood into the canvas bag he’s wearing across his body. When we reach the log pile, stacked waist-high with an axe propped up against the side, he pulls the piece of wood from his bag and chucks it on the top.

“Johan,” I say as he puts his hands on the lock and chain that secures the front gate and gives it a hefty tug. It holds firm. “Can I ask you a question about the attachment thing?”

He shoulders the gate. It creaks under his weight but doesn’t give way. “What about it?”

“You believe that you need to give up your attachments in order to find peace, right?”

“Correct.”

We lapse into silence again as we turn back to walk through the orchard. There’s a mango tree just a couple of metres from the fence, on our side, its branches grazing the barbed wire, as though desperate for escape.