‘Lasseter died looking,’ I said. ‘He tried to convince everyone but …’ It didn’t need saying.

Pop took the new directions from his pocket and studied them.

‘How we going?’ Peter called.

But he just kept pacing. A truck hurtled past, only a metre from where he walked, and the dust blew up around him.

Ern said, ‘He must be onto something. Maybe not like Lasseter said, but something. A chunk, big as your fist.’

‘You reckon?’ I asked.

Pop returned to the car, took his map from the glove box and came over to us. ‘I just worked it out.’

He tore the map into pieces and threw them into the fire. Peter sat forward, tried to brush them out, but then looked at Pop, and stopped.

Pop shredded his new directions, and tossed them to the wind. ‘I worked it out.’

‘What?’ Ernie asked.

But he just stood looking at the desert, turning a circle, his mouth wide open. ‘It’s not meant to be found,’ he said.

‘The gold?’ Ernie asked.

‘That too.’ He turned, walked to the car and got in the driver’s seat. ‘Come on, you lot. We can get lunch back in Coober Pedy.’

We drove back to town in silence. To Port Augusta. Home.

Each of the timbers burned beautifully. The roof, with its exposed wooden frame; the pine floorboards, crackling in the mid-morning sun. As the fire brigade unwound hoses, the Year Eights ran screaming, and White and the other teachers tried to hold the cheering students back.

Curtis couldn’t give a shit. ‘I was civil, after what she’s done. I coulda told her what I thought of her.’

We sat on a shaded mound on the edge of the oval, beside the water fountain. A great view of the fire.

‘You gotta move on, don’t you?’ Curtis asked.

‘I guess.’

‘So I said, I hope it all works out, Trace, and she said, I reckon, next time, look out for your woman.’

‘Stand by your man …’ I sang.

‘Though I reckon she’s going out with that Duncan guy in Year Eleven. You know, the state footballer.’

The art room popped and crackled; one of the walls had already collapsed. The paint had blistered, and you could see a Bulljaw outline, and the remains of our mural. ‘I suppose it doesn’t matter that they painted over it,’ I said.

Another unit arrived and parked. More hoses, more men running around in search of hydrants, flame and smoke and small spray-pack explosions. ‘Pity, we had some good times in there.’

‘She seemed sorry.’

‘Who?’

‘Trace. Probably wanted to get back together.’

‘Perhaps she is sorry?’

The roof fell in, lifting a sea of embers.

‘Best teacher I ever had,’ I said.

‘Nick?’

‘Said it like it was.’

Miss White came over. ‘Clem, Curtis, you Year Twelves could help, keep the little ones back.’ She gave us a look, turned and ran away.