Months passed between the bail hearing and the committal. Ivy’s baby was born. In Facebook photos, he was identical to Caleb and to Stephen. Another Wharton. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Of course I couldn’t sleep. No point trying.

I turned on my light. I slid out of bed to grab the manila folder of printed out files and handwritten notes from my oak dresser. Flicking through the loose pages, I imagined Jack’s day, rereading his description of the moment he and Craig Silva returned to Jack’s own house, turning the final corner. Jack so appalled he nearly ran off the road. This was he first time he realised his house, designed as a fortress against climate catastrophe and flame, had been completely destroyed. Despite his meticulous planning, all that remained were a couple of brick walls, stained with oily-looking soot. Fire still lingered around collapsing walls, flames playing an obscene game of hide and seek. Craig, unencumbered by emotional connection, made a quick assessment of the site. He strode through the rubble in his thick protective boots.

‘No one would have stayed here, Jack. No one who survived.’

For a terrible moment, Jack thought he must have killed us. Then he peered at his old dam. Movement. He made out a small line of people, blackened with soot, approaching. ‘Phoebe!’

I remember the hoarseness in his voice. I remembered having no energy to speak. Wet as a dirty mermaid, I trudged on as though on broken glass. We were wet, exhausted, alive.

I reached Jack, finally. ‘Is Caleb with you?’

He shook his head. ‘We’ll find him, Phoebe. I’ll take you to the refuge at St Monica’s.’

Refuge. What a loaded word. All those Brunton groups meeting in St Monica’s hall – the Progress Association, the Lions, the Rotary. There’d been no refuge for Caleb or me. Once that day began, everything that happened – every freak act of nature, every act of God, every choice we made – pushed us further into the flames of trouble, one crisis leading inevitably to the next.

I’ve never slept well but also, I’ve never slept as badly as I did after Caleb’s arrest. I didn’t believe Caleb slept well either. Jack explained post-traumatic stress disorder to me once, talking about his own experiences in the army. He helped me with Caleb almost from the first moment we met. His attitude to Caleb was always positive, sometimes felt like the only positive idea I had to hang onto.

The day before his committal hearing was due to start, I woke Caleb early, knocking on his door while magpies were still warbling.

‘If you want to talk about my sketchbook, go away.’

‘Okay. But we need to go shopping. You need a new suit for court.’

‘I’ve got a suit.’

‘It’s…’

‘It doesn’t fit. You can say it, Mum. I’m fat.’