Her blunt assessment of the situation rattled around inside Manolis’s head as she drove. He decided not to mention the box of firelighters found near his torched Valiant. Had it really been cut brakes? Either way, with the pain in his ribs intensifying, he suddenly felt acutely mortal.

KERR’S HOUSE WAS a rabbity bungalow with a bay window, small porch, and sun-faded picket fence. Despite Manolis’s objections, she showed him to her bedroom, declared she would sleep in the spare room, and went to check on her mum.

‘Sorry the house is so stinking hot,’ said Kerr. ‘Our air con’s broken. We used to be able to get it fixed fairly fast, but the detention centre ended that. The tradies all go there now as first priority.’

Manolis kicked off his shoes, made fists with his toes and tried to quieten his mind. He wanted to inspect the pickup truck, under the chassis, what remained of its brake lines, if that was at all possible. He also wanted to examine its last parking space outside the station for leaking brake fluid. Next, he had a number of pointed questions to ask Facility Manager Onions. And lastly, he had to deliver an apology to Rex; as old and as useless as it was, the smashed vehicle was still his property.

Manolis wondered how bruised young Sparrow was feeling.

As he showered, his grazed kneecaps burned under the acidlike sensation of hot water. He changed into the men’s T-shirt and shorts that Kerr had laid out for him with no further explanation. Examining his face and head in a large hanging wall mirror, he checked for obvious signs of trauma. Finding none, he lay on the bed. The light in the day was all but gone, and his eyelids were heavy. On hearing a nearby noise, he snapped them open again. A big glass of water and hearty bowl of vegetable soup appeared under his nose. A saintly Kerr hovered behind.

‘Made this earlier today,’ she said. ‘Two big pots. It’s Mum’s family recipe.’

With every generous spoonful, a soothing current of warmth gradually steeped through Manolis’s veins. He slurped hungrily under the watchful eye of his benevolent host. He couldn’t quite place his finger on it but there was something deliciously different about this simple bowl over all other meals in his recent memory. It smelt and tasted like earth.

‘Mum and I have a small garden out back.’ Kerr smiled proudly. ‘All the veggies came from there. Fresh fruits and vegetables cost a bomb since the detention centre opened, and so does eating out. The garden is about the only thing that Mum seems to genuinely recognise and take joy from these days.’

Manolis looked down at the empty, soup-stained bowl.

‘It was delicious,’ he said, before adding, ‘I’m vegetarian.’ His tone was sheepish.