As I run after him, my thoughts of Mum fade. He’s playing a game, letting the sprinkler catch him with spray, before taking off again. I have a different method. I run straight for the centre of the stream, letting it hit me hard in the face before I dive to one side and leap over the next jet of water. When I was little, I’d visit Dad’s work in the afternoon and I’d always run back and forth in front of the sprinklers until my clothes were so wet they stuck to me like a layer of soggy cotton skin. Eventually Dad started keeping a spare change of clothes for me so I could go home dry.

‘Better than the pool?’ he yells from his side of the grass.

I grin back. No answer is necessary.

Chapter 2

I wish I could say it was the birds chirping happily through my window that woke me up this morning, but that would be a lie. Instead, a galloping fear snapped me from sleep and left me gasping in my bed before it was even light. If I’d forced myself up and wandered out to the lounge where Dad was on his second cup of tea, he might have reassured me with a hug and a smile. But I can’t tell him what I’m afraid of. It would upset him too much.

Since Dad told me that Mum was coming to live here, I’ve watched him scrub every tile, vacuum every corner, and fill the kitchen with flowers. I don’t know why he’s bothering because nothing he does makes the space look any better; it’s still just a faded, tiny, temporary home.

‘Honey, I left some money on the bench,’ he says, leaning into my bedroom.

‘Thanks.’

‘You getting up?’

‘Yeah,’ I tell him, while snuggling further down under my sheets.

He walks in, sits on the edge of the bed, picks up a teddy from the floor (one Bridge gave me), and tucks it in beside me. After the fire (or ATF as I call it), Bridge was forever bringing me presents, pretending she suddenly had no need for her favourite things anymore. I know it was just her way of making sure I had things, too.

‘You okay, Clem?’

‘Yeah,’ I say quietly. I was hoping to avoid this conversation.

‘About tonight?’

‘Yep. Aren’t you going to be late for work?’ I glance over at my clock, trying to give him the hint.

‘Thanks. I really enjoyed our little chat the other day,’ he says with a smile.

‘Me too.’

He leans over and kisses the top of my head. He doesn’t smell of earth and dirt like he usually does, and the stains have gone from his work shirt. I hope Mum notices – not like before when no matter how helpful we were, she never acknowledged our efforts.

‘What time’s Bridget coming?’