I reached the checkout. First she told me that the original Magnums were nicer than the almond flavour I’d chosen, then that my preferred brand of milk contained too many additives. Then she talked about Caleb. ‘You should do something about him. All those piercings. Too many people are born freaks. He shouldn’t turn himself into one. Under that make-up, he’s nice looking. He’s ruining his future.’

‘You know,’ I told her, ‘a lot of people drive into Melbourne to avoid your inflated prices.’

She tightened her lips and glared at her cash register, counting out change. Behind her, a poster advertisement pressured me to be a good mother by buying fresh unprocessed whole foods and pre-packaged snacks. Kate Miller, I’m sure it was her, brushed past, trolley filled with water bottles. Her baby gawked through big wet eyes and blew moist bubbles, utterly unaware of his own mortality. Six-year-old Matilda grinned shyly from her trolley seat. She was in prep at Brunton Primary. I felt protective, the way I felt protective of any child whose name appeared on my roll, or on a hook intended for a backpack and raincoat.

Leaving, I waved at the Millers, not realising they were already ghosts.

I parked again outside the CFA’s gaping roller doors to let Caleb out and wave goodbye. Jack Laskin would be there. His face always came easily to my mind: blue eyes blinking behind glasses, whiskers, slightly receding hairline. A pleasant awareness suffused me, the temptation to go inside and share one of his raised-eyebrow smiles. A memory of our recent evening together scintillated in the air. But I couldn’t interrupt Jack today. He’d be too busy. There will be time for us later, I thought. And Jack would look after Caleb, as a recruit and as my son.

Bernie Lippard, sweating in heavy, yellow CFA gear, passed as I put my car back into gear. A tall, thin man with sparse blond hair, he tapped his fingers on my car window. ‘Hey, Phoebe. Hot enough for you?’

‘Just about. How’s Jacinta?’ His daughter recently left my school.

‘She’s in town with her grandparents. I’m staying put. You?’

‘Staying. Any last-minute advice?’

A strand of hair blew over his cheekbones. ‘It’s not last minute yet.’

I tried to imagine the day passing, myself picking Caleb up in the afternoon. All danger might be over: weather forecasters had made mistakes before.

Bernie walked away. I restarted my car. Brunton Hotel shrank in my rear-vision mirror, the small town melting into the Yarra Valley. I was on my way home, to deal with whatever the weather could throw at me, all on my own. So I thought.

Indoors, I powered up my air-conditioner until its roar rivalled the wind. To avoid obsessing about dangers Caleb might face, I sat near the front window and tuned my guitar. The strings felt tauter than usual, vibrating with the slightest movement as I strummed familiar chords. Outside, the wind worked eucalyptus leaves and bark strips into a frenzy of anticipation.