Jack took a long draught from his own glass. ‘You’ve met her. She doesn’t know who she misses. She’s trapped in the past.’

‘It’s hard on you.’

He smiled. ‘My life’s not all bad. I have some good times.’

I didn’t let my focus waver. ‘I’m terrified for Caleb. He’s no arsonist. But what if I can’t convince the court? I’ll blame myself if I fail – if we fail.’

If Jack wanted to be in my life, he needed to help clear Caleb. To remember how much Caleb valued and respected him.

He stared into his glass. ‘Growing up is hard. Having a mother who cares is good for him. Maybe that’s all you can do. Care.’

I could leave this no longer. ‘Caleb drew the site. Someone else was there.’

Jack’s phone vibrated and Amanda’s face smiled too brightly on the screen. He let the call go to voicemail, gazing at me. ‘Do you know who it was?’

I gripped the stem of my glass and shook my head. ‘It’s a white shape. But it’s someone.’

Jack sighed. ‘I’m sorry for leaving my phone on. The Retirement Home could call any time. Mum is getting worse.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I was sorry about a lot of things. About our relationship, that once buzzed with possibilities. About Jack’s mother whose poetry was so powerful. But mostly, I was sorry Jack hadn’t done more to free Caleb.

‘I better go back to making order from chaos,’ Jack said. ‘I’ll stop babbling soon. Promise.’

While Jack returned to his stir-fry in the makeshift kitchen, I imagined a universe where things really did move from chaos to order. A fire caused homes to rise, flames built Brunton from ashes and soot, bit by bit, piece by piece. Extinct animals roamed once again. Brunton’s crematorium passed Penelope’s parents back to her, presents in wooden boxes. Time wound the death out of them, coffins creaked open, eyelids widened, arms stretched for embraces. Caleb was himself or, rather, his gothic incarnation, tiny drops of blood on his lower lip.

Jack flicked his boxer-shaped lighter. I remembered his soot-stained nails and blistered fingers, soon after the fire. I wanted that lighter. And his fingers. I still wanted him. After eating, we’d go to bed together. Memories added warmth and spice to watching him cook, to sharing his meal. We discussed the case. Jack must have realised I wasn’t really interested in anything else. I mentioned John Zynda’s juvenile arson conviction.

‘How do you know about that?’ Jack asked.

‘A well-wisher sent an email. I don’t know why police suspect Caleb, not him.’

Jack decapitated a prawn, creating time to think. Some information was confidential. ‘John was investigated, Phoebe. He was in Melbourne when the fire began.’

‘How sure are you?’