Dad hums from the kitchen, pretending this is normal. Mum and I let go at exactly the same time. She turns away before I can see her eyes.

‘Been shopping, Clem?’ she asks.

‘Yeah.’

‘Want to show me what you got?’

I’m not sure where to look or how to compose my face. Mum heads back to the couch and sits at my end again.

I look over at Dad in the kitchen. He’s busy chopping potatoes. The bench is protecting him from being involved in this moment. His knife pounds the wooden board, and the tap drips, filling all the quiet spaces.

Dad looks right at me, and I wait for him to show me that he understands what I’m feeling. Instead, he walks over, rubs my shoulders like he’s trying to thaw me, and nudges me forward. I want to do this for him, so I hold the bottom of one of the plastic bags and upend it next to her. She picks up the pencil case that Bridge bought me and her strong fingers try the zip. It doesn’t glide like it did in the shop; it gets stuck halfway. I’m feeling just like that zip: I can’t quite open and can’t quite close.

‘Here, Clem, you do it,’ she says, holding it out to me.

I stare at it like it’s a grenade waiting to go off. I snatch the pencil case away, and the other stuff too, and shove it all back into the bag, so the grenade just detonates somewhere deep inside me instead.

Just then the air conditioner shudders to a stop and spits out a short breath of hot air. Mum and I both look up at it, like we’re relieved for something else to focus on. But I also wonder if it’s a sign of cracks in the patch job Dad’s done to mend this family. I use the distraction to start towards my room, but Dad stops me.

‘Honey … hang on a sec,’ he says. He’s in his frilly white apron, the one we were given after the fire, which he always wears when he’s cooking. The sight causes me to squeeze my eyes shut, as tight as they will go.

‘Clem, you’re out here tonight …’ he says. ‘I borrowed an air mattress from a guy at work.’

I don’t understand what he means. And then I do. She’s taking my room.

‘No,’ I say. It shoots out like a bullet and hits Dad so hard his face recoils.

‘Honey, I’m sorry,’ he tries.

‘It’s my room.’

‘I know, but your Mum needs somewhere to …’

‘No.’