‘How soon?’ Max asked, bottom lip jutting.

‘A couple of weeks.’

‘What if I can’t come every day?’

‘Then it might take a bit longer.’

The boy nodded. ‘Show me again and I’ll have another go.’

Leon set the kid up, and Max booted the ball over the fence and ran home after it, happy to be let off the hook.

Neighbourly duties completed, Leon strolled down the street to buy lunch. Last night’s burger had been tasty, and there had also been that chocolate frog—he hadn’t had one of those since he was a kid. The man behind the counter hadn’t been friendly, so the girl must have given it to him. Had it been a mistake?

The takeaway shop was halfway down the street between the supermarket and the bank. Mullers Takeaway in yellow capital letters on the front window, and beneath that: Good Food Fast. Inside, it seemed very ordinary. Bain-marie and high counter. Salad bar. Stainless-steel fryers and fume hoods. A few tables and chairs. Fridges stacked with drinks. The mandatory racks of chips, chocolates and lollies. But that was where the ordinary ended and the unusual began. On shelves above the magazine rack were tubs of honey for sale, and carefully laid-out knitted goods with prices pinned to them—beanies, tea-cosies, socks, booties, doilies, baby clothes, tiny little dresses and jumpers, stuffed toys—the kind of things his grandma would have made when she was still alive. Leon had seen craft like this in country stores before, but never in a takeaway shop.

He scanned the chalkboard menu to see if he’d missed anything last night, but it was the usual takeaway fare: fish and chips, burgers, steak sandwiches, pies and sausage rolls. In the bain-marie: slices of battered pineapple, crab sticks, potato cakes, Chiko rolls. An array of salads at six dollars for a medium tub, nine dollars for a large. The young woman from yesterday was behind the counter, staring at him boldly with big blue eyes. Leon felt awkward. She looked very young—a teenager—with few social skills, apparently. And she was wearing a long, heavy, old-fashioned skirt and a shapeless pink blouse tucked in at the waist, like someone from a bygone era, plaits twisted on top of her head like a halo. ‘Who’s the knitter?’ he asked, pointing at the shelves of woollen goods.

‘Me,’ she said.

This struck him as strange. Most teenagers were into phones, not knitting needles.

‘How can I help?’ she asked, wiping her hands on an apron tied round her small waist.

‘I’ll have fish and chips. What kind of fish do you have?’

She indicated the board. ‘Flake, trevalla and flathead.’

‘Anything fresh?’

‘No, but the flake is good.’

‘I don’t want to eat shark. They’re overfished. I don’t want to support that.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Maybe you could try the flathead. It’s usually nice.’

‘Okay. I’ll have that.’