‘It’s early,’ Julia says. ‘You said we’re allowed to do whatever we want.’

‘We can, mostly. When you’re new, though, they get hyper about being able to see you all the time. Like you might run away otherwise.’

They laugh, softly, into the circle of still air. That flash hits Holly again – thread of wild-goose calls strung high across the sky, her fingers woven deep into the cool pelt of grass, flutter of Selena’s lashes against the sun and this has been forever, everything else is a daydream falling away over the horizon. This time it lasts.

A few minutes later Selena says, ‘Becs is right, though. We should go. If they come looking for us . . .’

If a teacher came into the glade: the thought squirms in their spines, pokes them up off the grass. They brush themselves off; Becca picks fragments of green out of Selena’s hair and finger-combs it into place. ‘I need to finish unpacking anyway,’ Julia says.

‘Me too,’ Holly says. She thinks of the boarders’ wing, the high ceilings that feel ready to fill up with cold airy nun-voice harmonies. It seems like there’s someone new hovering by the yellow-striped bed, waiting for her moment: a new her; a new all of them. She feels the change seeping through her skin, whirling in the vast spaces between her atoms. Suddenly she understands what Julia was doing at dinner, poking Joanne. This flood was rocking her on her feet, too; she was kicking into its current, proving that she had a say in where it took her, before it could close over her head and bowl her away.

You know you can come home any time you want, Dad said, like eighty thousand times. Day or night: one phone call, and I’ll be there inside the hour. Got it?

Yeah I know I get it thanks, Holly said eighty thousand times, if I change my mind I’ll call you and come straight back home. It didn’t occur to her, up until now, that it might not work like that.

Chapter 3

She liked her cars, Conway. Knew them, too. In the pool, she went straight for a vintage black MG, stunner. A retired detective left it to the force in his will, his pride and joy. The fella who runs the pool wouldn’t have let Conway touch it if she hadn’t known her stuff – transmission’s playing up, Detective, sorry ’bout that, lovely VW Golf just over here . . . She waved, he tossed her the keys.

She handled the MG like it was her pet horse. We headed southside, where the posh people live, Conway nipping fast around corners in the whirl of laneways, laying into the horn when someone didn’t scarper fast enough.

‘Get one thing straight,’ she said. ‘This is my show. You got problems taking orders from a woman?’

‘No.’

‘They all say that.’

‘I mean it.’

‘Good.’ She braked hard, in front of a wheatbran-looking café where the windows needed washing. ‘Get me coffee. Black, no sugar.’