“Yep.” Dad abandoned the dishes. “Maggie – get the lamps in, will you? Trig, help me with the blackouts.”

“I left the water on the cart.” Mum brushed her hands together over her plate. “Better get it in.”

“I’ll help,” said Jed.

Thunder rumbled through the house, through my chest, through my heart.

“Maggie – the lamps!”

Dad’s shoes were on the mat by the back door. I slipped my feet into them and flip-flapped out into the garden. Fat raindrops fell on my head. I gathered up all five billy lamps – Mum’s, Dad’s, Jed’s, mine and Trig’s – and flip-flapped back inside.

Dad and Trig had done the downstairs blackouts and were clattering around upstairs. Mum and Jed were still out sorting the water.

So it was just me in the kitchen darkness. With Dad’s visiting bag underneath the table.

Antibiotics.

I turned on my lamp. The room filled with soft, warm saved-up sunshine.

I grabbed the bag, unbuttoned it and pulled the inside pocket wide. I picked out a small brown bottle, and narrowed my eyes to read Doctor Sunita’s tiny writing in the dim light. Eshan Chowdhry. Cotellocene. 30mg. I put it back, and picked out a second bottle. Solly S. Pinner. Phenodicolyte. 10mg. Then a third. Elsie P. Wetheral. Trellicillin. 250mg.

Trellicillin. That was an antibiotic, wasn’t it? I had some once, for an ear infection. Elsie P. Wetheral – that was Elsie Weather’s real name. We all called her Elsie Weather, though, on account of how she could predict the forecast. Or so she said. She’d been right about this storm for certain.

The bottle was hard and smooth between my fingers. It’d be stealing, if I took it. Proper stealing.

“Blackouts are done! Lamps can go on!” Trig’s feet ker-lumped down the stairs.

I dropped the bottle into the bag and shoved it back under the table.

TUESDAY
2 SEPTEMBER

CHAPTER 6

Morning seeped round the edge of the blackouts.

I scrunched up my eyes.

Yesterday.

Lindi.

Crunck.

Trig’s grey jumper.

Pound-cake hair.

Una.

The wanderer.

Dirty.

Dangerous.

Deceitful.

I could take her some food, steal her some medicine. Find out more about her. Get some evidence. Catch her even. Turn her in and become a hero.

Or I could just keep quiet like I always do. And forget all about her.

I got up and opened the blackout. Another bright, hot day.

The storm had passed.

Miss Conteh beamed at us from behind her desk, enormous bags under her eyes.

“What a pleasure it was to read your summer diaries, Class Four.”

She had two diaries clasped to her chest.

I beamed back at her.

“The person I’ve chosen to be runner-up has worked really hard on their diary. They’ve treated it with care, written some very interesting accounts of their summer activities and drawn some beautiful pictures. I’ve read about fruit picking—”

I wrote about that. I wrote about fruit picking.