‘The wind changed,’ Jack said.

‘Fire didn’t come here?’ asked Harmony.

‘Not yet.’

A moment later we passed an old timber house converted to a pub on the corner of Main Road and Wharton Street. A group of young men and women had gathered there, apparently dancing. Jack pushed down on the brake. ‘Fucking hell. They shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe if the wind changes again. Phoebe, stay here. I’ll talk to them.’

I threw my door open. I wanted to argue with the biblical enthusiasts, too. Why would God begin the Armageddon in this peaceful community where the only apparent sin was wine consumption? Wasn’t making wine Jesus’s first miracle? Why not begin in Melbourne, surely much more like Sodom or Gomorrah? Why create the world just to destroy it? Our god wasn’t Nero, or Sol.

An evangelist approached and passed me a bundle of pamphlets.

Psalm 102, I read.

For my days are consumed like smoke,

and my bones are burned as an hearth.

My heart is smitten and withered

like grass;

so that I forget to eat my bread.

I watch and am as a sparrow alone upon

the house top.

Mine enemies reproach me all day;

and they that are mad against me are

sworn against me.

For I have eaten ashes like bread and

mingled my drink with weeping.

The girl’s eyes were wide. She stepped closer and I recognised her as Hannah Brin, who’d seemed to be one of the few friendly classmates at Caleb’s high school graduation. ‘God will judge the living and the dead.’

Intensely frustrated, Jack’s voice carried back to us. ‘I can’t make you leave but you’re very foolish if you don’t.’

His footsteps were heavy, angry. He brushed his mouth against my ear so the children couldn’t hear. ‘People will die tonight.’

I seized her arm. How could I let this happen? ‘It’s not safe. Get out of here!’

But she shook my hand away. ‘God will protect me.’

Eventually we reached St Monica’s church hall, on the side of Brunton Oval. Smoke was heavy here, evacuees moving through it like shadows. But at least the building still stood.

Could Caleb be here?

Nancy Bailey, a white-haired woman whose corduroy pants rubbed like a wail when she walked, approached as we entered, bearing a clipboard and an air of capable efficiency. Setting up a refuge could have been something she did all the time. Around her, people bustled, eager to help where they could. ‘My, don’t you all look done in,’ she said. ‘I’ll get you fed and a place to rest.’

She wrapped her arm around Harmony’s thin shoulders. Harmony shook it away, and Nancy’s cheeks puffed out. She had very firm opinions about how people should behave and widened her eyes at me, requesting help with her grievance. Harmony, clearly, should want a hug.

‘Do you have a list of people who’ve already registered?’ I asked, ignoring her. ‘I’m looking for Caleb.’

Her lips pursed. Teachers were meant to keep children in better order. ‘He’s not here, Phoebe. That’s something I’d of noticed.’