He’s right. The fishery is better off in their hands—in Jem’s hands. Today, down there, drifting among motes of filament-studded sunlight, parting swathes of curling bull-kelp with his neoprene-gloved hands, Jem had left an abalone for every one he’d taken. If it means his work takes longer than need be then who cares. Most days, Jem’s happy underwater, watching fish cruise through the murky blue and green expanses and dart and weave among the weed that swishes and waves on currents and swells. Plus, he isn’t accountable to anyone apart from his old man, who understands Jem’s approach, because it was he who taught it to Jem. If luck would have it that his family own a percentage of the quota allocated for the entire fishery, then the least they can do is make sure their percentage is devoted to sustainable fishing. If they gave up their quota, who knows whose hands it would fall into.

And, kiwi fruit aside, Jem admires his mother’s position, her strength of character in living by her convictions, her desire to look after her body and the world.

When Jem gets home, he finds Lucy standing topless in front of the mirror. She grins at him, then turns so she can view her profile and runs her hands down the plane of her stomach.

‘Do you think my flat chest will look weird if I get a bit of a paunch when I get older?’ Lucy asks. ‘Flat chest and pot belly. It won’t be a good look, will it?’

‘Ah-h,’ Jem stammers. What the fuck’s he supposed to say to that? Will her chest look weird, with its scars and her planned octopuses, if she develops a paunch?

To his relief, she bursts out laughing. ‘You should see the look on your face!’ she says, leaving the mirror so she can wrap her arms around his neck. ‘I’m awful, aren’t I?’

He nestles his face into her hair, and sniffs her in. She still smells like Lucy. ‘You’ll be bloody gorgeous no matter what happens,’ he says.

‘Ha! Good answer.’ He can hear her smile.

He pulls back from her enough to kiss her on the forehead. ‘Now,’ he says, running his hands down her back until they come to a rest on her hips. Her woman’s hips. ‘Tell me about your day. How’d it go with the psychologist?’

‘Bit weird,’ Lucy says. ‘She wants me to knit fake boobs. But look.’ She pulls back from him so that he can see her chest again and his hands drop to his sides. ‘I got the first octopus coloured in.’

‘Oh wow,’ Jem says, cringing at the hollowness of his tone. He really needs to strike the word from his vocabulary.

The tattoo is raised and red and somehow seems to be swarming out at him. Is it just Jem, or is it angry? Raised and red and angry.

A fortnight passes. The thirteenth of March arrives. Lucy has that date written on a card stuffed somewhere in her handbag, summoning her up to Hobart.