‘It’s—’ she glanced at the display on her car stereo ‘—it’s August thirtieth.’

I nodded.

‘That means we fly out to Bali in two and a half months.’

I hadn’t realised it was so soon.

‘Matt will drive us to the airport. Then we’re getting on a plane. It’s a seven-hour flight, give or take.’

‘It’s a boy!’

She jerked at the sound, but went on talking. ‘And then there’s the transfer. Which will probably be a minivan. The road is—’ she wriggled her shoulders ‘—not the best. Busy. Lots of buses. Insane drivers.’

‘It’s a boy! It’s a boy! It’s a boy!’

She inhaled sharply. ‘Cait.’

‘Sorry.’ I released my grip. ‘It wasn’t me.’

‘I want you to do this,’ she said, annoyed, frustrated.

I hesitated. I’d been trying not to listen to her but I’d heard every word. ‘I know.’

‘I want us to do this.’

‘I know.’

‘So.’ She sat back in her seat, looking straight ahead. ‘I think we need to practise. And I think we need to start right now.’

My breath caught.

It was always catching. Always tight, always hard. It had been so long since I could breathe and I was sick of it, the constant ache in my chest.

She turned to me, and I could see the pleading in her eyes. ‘Trust me, Caitie?’

I took a deep breath, and nodded.

She didn’t drive far, just north until the houses started to separate out. I squeezed the blue elephant’s trunk and its legs and once its belly, and she told me she was going to throw him out the window, asked me where I’d got him from anyway, and I’d cried then, just for a little bit. I was sick of crying.

It was hard, but it wasn’t as hard as I’d thought it was going to be, wasn’t as momentous as I’d made it in my head. Fear rumbled through me but it didn’t burn, and we crossed intersection after intersection and nothing happened. We kept going.

I felt myself relax, sink into the seat, watch the houses instead of frantically checking for other cars. At one point I closed my eyes. When I opened them Lina was smiling, satisfied, and it felt like we might be okay after all.

29 THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER

29

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER

Georgia wasn’t much older than me. She wore funky colourful shoes with thick heels and had a peacock feather tattooed up one side of her calf. I don’t know what I’d expected, but it wasn’t that. Her office was plain but warm, a series of insipid pastel watercolours on the walls. She caught me studying them and apologised. ‘I share the room with someone,’ she explained.