I paused at the window of Bryce Miller’s real estate agency. Not just in Brunton but in surrounding towns, many houses were for sale and prices were sinking even more quickly than in Melbourne. Would I need another place to live?

‘Sad, innit?’ asked a voice at my elbow. I jumped. Leanne Beckwith.

‘So many things. Which one do you mean?’

‘All them houses.’ She pointed at the pictures. ‘Most of them burned.’

Of course. ‘Why would the agent leave these pictures?’

Leanne frowned, like the answer to this too was obvious. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

I leaned my forehead against the cool glass window.

‘You all right?’ Leanne asked.

‘I’m fine.’

She rested her hand on my shoulder. She’d surprised me with her need on the day of the fire, but now she offered her own help in return. I closed my hand over hers. ‘Having kids is hard. I understand,’ she said. ‘Harmony’s no firebug but I still cry inside when people treat her bad. It’ll get better.’

Impulsively, I pulled her into a hug before I ran off. Even though Leanne instinctively said the wrong thing, she meant well. We had so few allies. I couldn’t afford to lose one.

With an enveloping hug, Jack welcomed me to the garage where he was living. For a moment, I collapsed into that comfort. Then I pulled away. It was wonderful, it was what I’d believed I needed, but it wasn’t enough.

‘You promised coffee?’

Jack had a dark expression on his face. ‘It’s already brewing. Phoebe, I – I wish there was something more I could do.’

In this tiny place, it was easy to remember the things he’d lost too – his antiques, his vinyl collection. An old sofa with a sleeping bag tossed over the back faced an even older television set, a black box with bunny ears on top. He’d fixed a row of cabinets and a couple of hotplates to one wall for a makeshift kitchen.

The single window revealed a row of ash-stained terracotta pots that, like the garage itself, had miraculously avoided the flames. They rested at rakish angles atop a wooden sleeper apparently designed for breeding redback spiders. ‘It’s a pretty basic place but I have everything I need.’ He gave me my coffee.

‘Thanks. Can we watch the news? I have to know what people are saying.’

There were two bushfire news stories: Caleb’s arrest – and a shorter piece about a water-bombing helicopter pilot now dropping eucalyptus seeds over the regenerating bush. Jack sat beside me. ‘It must be hard for you to watch this.’

‘It’s not as bad as online. Facebook threats are getting worse.’

Jack opened a plastic lid beside him – a small new record player. He was starting to replace his collection of blues music. ‘Hong Feng promised me police cars are regularly driving past your house.’