‘But it’s the truth!’ Mum spoke like Caleb wasn’t there. Her cheeks had gone blotchy, like she had an allergy. ‘What if people come to our house? Our address is everywhere. What if the real arsonist…?’

Douglas raised his hand like he could wipe her words out of the air between them. ‘Look, Phoebe, the best way to help is to believe in Caleb. Today we’ll hear the prosecution’s opening statement. We can start to raise questions about their story… Are you okay?’

‘Do you have children?’ Mum asked Douglas.

‘No. Why?’

‘I need to defend my boy. Everyone hates him.’

Mum, thought Caleb. I’m here. He stared at a fraying patch on the cuff of his old shirt. Mum had told him to wear a new one. She couldn’t control as much as she thought.

‘Everyone doesn’t hate him.’ Douglas passed across a clipping from the morning’s newspaper. Caleb glimpsed a photo, a large man with a beard and a beaten-up Akubra.

‘I know him.’ Mum began to read. ‘Aaron Morgan’s wife died and his house was destroyed but he wants justice, not vengeance. He says Caleb is being bullied.’

Bullied? Inside, Caleb flinched. ‘I saw Aaron Morgan that night. He was looking for Elizabeth.’

Douglas checked his watch. ‘Ready?’

‘I’ll never be ready,’ said Mum.

Here he was. In the dock. Caleb’s nightmare no longer leaked simply into his own private sketchbook, but was about to become a spectacle for Sadie Riley’s audience. He needed to survive this. He’d built a weighty body out of pizza, but even in his old athletic days, he couldn’t have run from court. In his lap, his hands shook. At least they were hidden. At least Mum couldn’t see. She sat next to Dad at the back of the… pews? (Were pews only for churches?) Mum stared at him like she wanted to read his thoughts – even though she never listened when he explained. Which sketchbook was she clutching, in a way she’d want to clutch him? Mum believed in him. Could he ever forgive her for being so stupid? Caleb scowled and she turned her fierce glare onto the lawyers, like she wanted to take a bite out of them. It was a long time since Caleb needed that kind of mothering, if he’d ever needed it. He was a person, not a lion cub. Okay, maybe he was a freak in a freak show, a circus animal, behind bars, a museum display, behind glass. He needed his pencils to get these images out of his mind and onto paper where they belonged.