This morning, she’d risen early and ticked off her jobs: vacuuming the rooms, doing the washing, mopping the floors, cleaning the fryers. Changing the oil was a job she and Kurt generally tackled together. She detested doing it alone: draining the old oil into tins, scraping out the dead bits of batter, wiping away the scum, and then scouring the bottom of the fryers. After pouring in the new oil, she’d showered to get rid of the grease. And now she was watching the children on their way to school. She saw the policeman’s sons go by: Jaden shoving against Callum and pinching his arm. Then Max dawdled past, focused on his phone. But he looked up, peered into the shop and waved—the only person who had seen her all morning. She was invisible to everyone else.

A log truck rumbled up the street, the shop windows rattling as it pulled in across the road, air brakes snorting. It was Robbo in his battered blue Kenworth, his name written in curly silver letters on the door. His load of slender logs was probably headed for the pulp mill. It seemed most loads were destined for pulp these days: so many thin trees, too young for sawing.

Robbo climbed down from the cab, hitched his jeans and crossed to the bakery. He wasn’t supposed to park his truck in the main street but he was a law unto himself, and his wife Trudi worked part-time at the bakery, so he must have figured he had an excuse. Trudi was nice. Miki often served her in the shop, and she always smiled and said thank you. Miki had heard Trudi only worked part-time because she wanted to help out in the community, like delivering Meals on Wheels for old people who couldn’t cook anymore. Trudi also assisted with reading at school because she liked to be around children. Apparently she couldn’t have her own children, and the women said she had troubles with depression too. Miki didn’t know much about depression, but she could see something mournful in Trudi’s eyes. It was lucky Trudi had Robbo: Miki could tell by the soft way he looked at his wife that he loved her. Not like some men in town. Mooney’s eyes were always hard when he looked at poor Liz.

Now Robbo appeared from the bakery with a cream bun and a coffee-to-go. Not the sort of food he ought to be eating: he was short and thick around the middle. People joked that he was carrying a spare tyre for his truck.

Miki liked Robbo; he always gave a nod when Kurt was looking away. Today, though, he didn’t notice her. When the shop was shut it was as if she didn’t exist.