You are coming home to visit later today. Home to the house Claire left you because Stephen was a disappointment to her. Perhaps you would have disappointed her too. I stand again at your window. Fire consumes and destroys, but it also clears. Although its effects are distorted by the changing climate, fire has been part of the landscape, as natural as the cycles of birth and growth and death. One day, Brunton will burn again. Afterwards, surviving eucalypts grow new leaves, become home to returning wildlife. Some families decide to leave, new families move in, the CFA has new recruits. Police find other people to investigate. Though the season no longer has the clemency of an old friend, it’s summer again. Past the Retirement Home, Brunton is being rebuilt – War Memorial, hotel tower, service station, shops, school – almost without a scar. It still fills on warm weekends, especially when a nearby vineyard hosts a music festival. But like a Roman reconstruction, it doesn’t feel quite authentic.

I am a new Phoebe, the old one was a late, last victim of the fire. I lied to protect you. I broke faith with my own beliefs. I allowed what could legally be proven to be more significant than what was true. Caleb – you – have lost the weight gained before the committal hearing. You are changing again. As if the sullen goth and the overweight prisoner were simply costumes you tired of, you’ve shed your skin. You’ve returned to your drawing, vanishing into the ancient bush for hours at a time and capturing the regrowth around Brunton in pencil drawings and then in watercolours in all shades of green and damp-earth brown.

I meet you at Hurstbridge Station and drive you back into the Valley to a new Brunton cafe, built on the site of Creepy Chic. I order you a beer, and sandwiches for both of us. Down the road, Peter Brin supervises the reconstruction of his service station. The CFA is being rebuilt next to the newsagent where you said Penelope, now a sensible young mother, once stole vouchers for mauve hair dye. You stare at me. I love you. You are my son. I got you out of trouble twice. I would do it again.

But you misunderstand your past as surely as Shirley does, and say, ‘People will always think I’m guilty.’

I haven’t touched my food. ‘You could have told the police you saw Shirley.’

You drop your sandwich onto the plate. ‘Why would I drag her through this?’

I want to touch his cheek. ‘You were dragged through it.’

‘You should have let me face what I did to Sean. I need to say goodbye.’

‘Goodbye?’ I repeat, alarmed.

‘Dad’s helping me publish a Sean the Adventurer story. Then I’m going to America. Art college. Dad is paying. I need a fresh start.’