He almost laughed. ‘No wonder they haven’t found nothin’. Too far west.’ He stood. ‘You alright to finish off?’ And went in before I could answer.

I hosed the car, emptied the bucket and parked in the drive. When I got out I smelled smoke. Ron, perhaps, at his incinerator, burning his wool scraps. No—it was coming from number 28.

I thought I’d risk it. I crossed the road, walked down the drive and saw Wendy, alone, beside the incinerator, feeding a jumper to the flames. And beside her, the others. I approached her, but she didn’t acknowledge me. I could see she’d been crying. ‘I thought you were gonna hold onto them,’ I said.

No reply. She picked up another, let it drop into the flames, and watched it.

‘All those years,’ I said.

She didn’t even turn and look at me. She was intent upon destruction; the wool flickering and flaring and glowing before becoming smoke, making a column that rose above the house, street, suburb.

‘Wendy?’

She wouldn’t reply. I took it to mean I should leave. I turned, headed for the drive, but Les was standing at the back door. He motioned for me to come in.

He dropped into his recliner, and I sat beside him. He said, ‘Look.’ He handed me a letter. Three folds, on white paper. Black and blue ink.

Dear Mrs Champness

Thank you for your letter. The request was considered, and approved. The young man, now eighteen, was contacted. Although unable to provide specific details, I can say that he presently lives interstate.

Mrs Champness, I am sorry to say the young man declined your invitation. He explained that he has settled, and is happy, and believes any contact would upset his adoptive parents, whom he holds close. He did say, though, this was not a reflection on how he feels about you and Mr Champness. He understands the circumstances, and wishes you well. He says he is curious about those days, and might, in time, change his mind.

I understand this is difficult news. It might be some consolation to know his adoptive parents have been honest with him, and explained his earliest days. I have left an ‘open invitation’ for him to contact us, and you, so, for now, all we can do is be patient.

I returned it to Les. ‘That’s bad luck.’

‘I guessed it’d happen. Wanna drink?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘I put myself in the same position. If yer happy, it’s a loada baggage to have to open.’

The smoke was coming in the door.

‘I helped her with the application,’ I said.

‘I know.’

The television was on, but the sound was turned down.

‘I hope that’s okay?’

‘Of course.’

I stood, and walked away. Les said, ‘You couldn’t turn it up, could you?’

So I did.