Later that evening, while on TV, politicians began to argue about whose fault the fire was, residents of the Retirement Home (the stronger ones, the weaker had been transferred to Melbourne) walked around the refuge handing out salad rolls steamed in cling wrap, and heat-softened chocolate bars. Caleb wolfed down his then mine, like he’d never been difficult to feed.

Harmony Beckwith found us. ‘Ms Wharton?’

Someone had tried to wipe her ash-smeared face, but hadn’t done a good job. ‘Yes, Harmony?’

‘I saved this.’ From the shopping bag she’d carried from my house she withdrew a large leather pencil case. Mine. She passed it to me, dirty little face filled with hope.

I unzipped the case to discover my whiteboard markers, the stamps with smiley faces and cheery messages. Well done! and Excellent work! All the things Harmony associated with the side of me that she was used to, in school. Also, the case contained a well-used notebook. The one where I recorded new thoughts about art, alongside my lyrics. Harmony must have seen me with it, hundreds of times. Harmony. Bully, child smoker, trouble-maker. She, of that ironic name, had remembered what was important to me, and kept it safe.

I met her smile. We’re not really allowed to touch students, but I pulled Harmony into a rough hug. My tears made splashes of clean in her sooty hair.

Harmony was exhausted, but proud of herself. She let me hold her for a moment, a miniature example of the way fire had pulled the community together. Then she pulled away. ‘Mum says once you have this, I’ve gotta bloody go to sleep.’

I smiled. ‘Mum’s right. Thanks so much for this, Harmony. What a lovely thought.’

Eyes stinging, I returned to my stretcher. Caleb had collapsed into the next one. I watched his eyes close then wrote in the rescued notebook. Quick word sketches. Lots of them. All impressions from that day. The roar of fire like war cries of an approaching army. The demon hands of flames reaching skywards. Letters on paper, the quick word images, made the memories firmer, somehow. One day, these impressions might be at the heart of new songs I’d write.

After a while I noticed Caleb sitting up again and staring across the hall. Sweat in his hair had dried and beneath the bandana his hair had resumed its natural waves. ‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘I heard her voice. Penelope. She’s over there.’

He was right. Penelope, sooty-faced, with ashes in her long, stringy hair, shifted from foot to foot while Nancy Bailey spoke to her. Beneath a blanket draped over her narrow shoulders I saw expanses of thin, grimy thighs and long socks that would have been white and knee-height before they became ripped and grey and saggy. Nancy finished speaking and Penelope burst into tears, throwing herself into the elderly woman’s arms. Tears weren’t unusual that day, but Penelope won people’s attention. She brought Caleb to his feet. He took one step towards her. Further words reached us. The couple I’d seen on my street earlier had also escaped and were perched on a nearby stretcher, sharing a flask of coffee. Kylie Hart, who worked as a counsellor, sipped, and said, ‘Poor girl. I heard her parents died. She’s going to need therapy.’ Kylie clearly didn’t care who she upset. She’d once faced legal trouble for calling herself a psychologist although she had never actually studied psychology.