He picked up the first sheet of iron and tried to hold it in place. The wind was too strong, and blew him back. He fought it. I helped, but the gale ripped the iron from our hands. ‘Hammer, and three-inch nails,’ he called.

I ran to the shed. Mum and Jen were standing on the back porch, watching. Mum said, ‘Tell him to come in. It’ll wait.’

I just shrugged. Pop never listened to me.

‘Dad!’ she called, but he didn’t reply.

Pop had sorted the nails into different-sized jars. Three inch. Then I searched for the hammer.

‘Clem!’ The voice above the howl, above the voice: Mum. I went out and she pointed to the fence. The two sheets of iron were sitting on the ground, but Pop had gone. She said, ‘Jen’s gone after him.’

‘Where?’

‘Through the fence.’

I ran, jumped through the hole, down the lane, past Don’s little toilet with its banging door. ‘Pop?’ To the main road. And there he was, wearing a single slipper, wandering the asphalt. Jen stood calling as cars approached, slowed, drove around him. No one stopped or seemed to care. Soon the traffic had banked up, and one man wound down his window and said, ‘Go home, you silly old fool.’

I ran towards Jen, and noticed Don standing beside her, calling, ‘Please, come in!’

I joined them. ‘Pop, you’re gonna get hit.’

But he wasn’t listening. He was trying to determine the dimensions of the main road. Pacing the distances across a single lane, two, the lengths of gutter, how far from pole to pole. I could see his lips moving, and the numbers coming.

Mum ran up behind us. ‘Dad!’

The cars had banked up a hundred metres. A young man got out. ‘You gonna get him, or what?’

We figured it safe, and walked onto the road. The wind had picked up and it was hard to stay upright. Dirt, bits of wiper blades, even an old hub cap. ‘Dad!’ Mum tried again, but nothing.

Don, still in his greasy apron, stood in front of the cars and lifted his hand. We approached Pop and I put my arm around his shoulders. ‘We gotta go in,’ I said, but he pulled away and continued pacing.

Mum tried, but he did the same, this time pushing her away.

Motorists were sounding horns, and the sky cracked and opened and the rain started again. Light at first, but within seconds, crashing down.

Jen was determined. She took his arm, but he turned, glared at her and said, ‘You can’t have it.’

She waited, unsure.

‘You can’t. It’s mine. I was given it. Forty-two paces, from lane to lane.’