‘Nope. Can’t say I have. Come on, Ms Wharton. It’s not a school day. Have a cold one.’

‘We’re not here for beer,’ Jack said. ‘You have to leave, get to the oval. And I mean now! At most, you’ve got twenty minutes.’

Pauly Romer took another swig. ‘No way, man. That smoke is blowing over from Kingstown. I heard on the radio. Come have a beer. We’ve got cold ones.’

A woman stood up beside him. ‘They say the cool change is coming, Captain Laskin. Will it be safe to stay after all?’

‘That’ll make it even more dangerous. You all have to get to the oval. Look!’ Jack pointed at the house beside the hotel. Embers, flying kilometres ahead of the fire front, had reached its roof where they danced, a chorus line.

I watched Pauly’s eyes widen. Embers settled and caught hold of dried leaves in the eaves, bursting into flame. The beer-drinkers agreed to go to the oval.

‘If you see Caleb there, can you send him to the Brunton church hall?’ I asked.

We turned back onto the highway. I heard people calling for help on Jack’s radio. Leanne’s husband rang and Jack could tell him at least his family was safe at the church hall which, pressed up against the oval, was able to be defended with just a couple of tankers. Others who called included the families of my students. Jack had to tell them he had no information or – worse – that he knew their location but no help could get through. Too many homes were at risk. People were on their own.

Further along, a fire tanker was parked roadside. CFA volunteers were lined up fighting fires that strained to jump the wide road.

‘Jack!’ I pointed. In their bright yellow gear, the firefighters could be anyone. ‘Is Caleb here?’

Jack shrugged, but pulled over behind the vehicle. I leaped out, my jumper pulled over my mouth so I could breathe. I expected to recognise Caleb – I was so familiar with how he moved, the stoop of his shoulders – but even close up I had to peer beneath masks at blackened faces. One by one, the volunteers shook their heads.

Another alarm sounded. Jack checked his radio. ‘It’s from Aaron and Elizabeth Morgan’s place.’

Everyone knew the Morgans. Aaron coached the junior AFL group, Auskick. Elizabeth had cut oranges for and served cordial to many of our children. She’d been doing this back when Caleb used to play.

‘That’s close by. We’ll have to go,’ said a firey.

‘We’ll follow,’ Jack said.

The tanker leading the way, we turned a nearby corner. Down the road, power poles were alight like a row of burning crucifixes.

‘Fuck,’ Jack said. ‘Phoebe, I knew you shouldn’t have come…’

An enormous eucalypt reared up roadside, a medusa with hair of snake flames. It roared before it toppled, blocking the road. Ahead of us, the tanker’s brakes screeched, high pitched against the deep roar of wind and flames. And the vehicle ploughed ahead, plunging into the flaming tree.