I reach a familiar intersection. If I turn left, I’ll arrive at the bus stop where I could catch the 482 back to the flat. A right turn will take me somewhere I’m not sure I’m ready for.

I turn right. I don’t know why. I keep expecting to see Samara or Lucy, or one of the other girls from primary school, who live on these streets. But I don’t see anyone. It’s too hot for kids to be playing in their front yards. I keep running. My sweat is sticky on my neck and my face burns with heat and sun and effort. I hear my phone buzz and I know it’s probably Bridge. I should talk to her, but I can’t. Instead I run. There’s a stitch needling its way up my stomach. I try to ignore it but it hurts.

I round the corner and I am confronted by the memory of that night. Coming home with Dad and seeing the fire trucks lined up in a bright red row. Me eating pizza in the car as we drove, not knowing that the smoke and the hoses pumping water and the onlookers were all there because our house was burning.

I slow to a jog, not wanting to get there too quickly. I could turn back and leave before I get too close, but it’s like I’m being pulled in, like I’m in a magnetic field and I have no choice but to drift closer and closer until I’m right outside.

The front yard is greener. Dad must have been busy. For a second it stings that he hasn’t asked me to help him. The old letterbox is still there. It’s the only wooden thing that survived, and it doesn’t look like it belongs out the front of such newness.

My netball ring is gone. All evidence that I ever played in the front yard has been wiped clean. If I didn’t know this used to be my home, I wouldn’t recognise it at all. I saw the frame go up and some of the walls, but the rest of it is totally foreign. Our old house was weatherboard. The paint was peeling and there were a few cracks on the walls and spiderwebs in corners. It was open and airy and light. This house is dark. The paint is grey and the roof is black, and it’s clean and shiny and brand new. There’s no personality, no history. This house could belong to anyone.

My bedroom is at the front. The bay window juts out a little and Dad has planted a magnolia tree in front of it. He knows I love them. The tree is tiny like I am. I wonder if it will grow faster than me.