Caleb raised a hand once again to the side of his head. Then he swayed… and collapsed.

I fell onto the floor beside him. His skin was clammy and actually a little cool to touch. Finally, I could remove the bandana. Beneath it, his forehead was bruised. Above his ear, his scalp and hair were dark and matted with blood.

‘Caleb! You’re injured!’

His eyes opened.

‘We need a doctor.’

His gaze managed to look unfocussed and desperate at the same time. He clutched my hand, the tightness nearly painful. ‘I want to talk to Penelope.’

‘Not right now.’

‘I need to talk to her,’ Caleb repeated. He shook, and his eyes drifted shut.

I begged the coffee-sippers, ‘Please. Find a doctor.’

Kylie was already shuffling to her feet. She nodded wordlessly, then went off in search. A doctor came over very quickly. He pushed the bandana aside to check Caleb’s bloody scalp then shone a torch into his eyes. ‘How’d this happen?’

Caleb shrugged. The doctor turned to me. ‘Before, I saw he was walking strangely.’

‘That’s not from today. He was injured… about a year ago.’

‘All the same, head injuries can be serious. Even minor ones. He could have a skull fracture. Not remembering how it happened is a worrying sign. He needs to go on the next hospital transport for proper observation.’

‘Hospital transport?’

‘Buses are taking injured people into Melbourne. His hands could also deal with more attention.’

Caleb shook his head and moaned. ‘I need to see Penelope.’

‘This could be a skull fracture. If it’s not treated, you might not see anyone.’

My fingers nearly crushed his. If Penelope wasn’t so clearly distressed about her parents, I could have asked her to come over and insist. ‘Penelope would want you to get help.’

Caleb’s gesture was part way to a nod. ‘Don’t forget my sketchbook.’

I packed it with our few belongings and guided Caleb to the exit. He didn’t fight me. Nancy Bailey, with her cords and camera, was signing people in with ruthless efficiency. Once in BuyCheap she’d said she pitied me for having a son like Caleb. She saw us in the queue for hospital transfer and said, ‘I’m gunna pray for you.’

‘If it makes you feel important,’ I replied.

A small minibus was the organised transport. The outer-suburban hospital was a collection of architecturally disconnected buildings clustered on a hillside, surrounded by undamaged houses. An uninterested guard waved us through a boom gate.

I helped Caleb from the bus and held his arm, scared he might collapse again. Giant sliding doors to the emergency ward yawned open. I guided Caleb into a cool waiting room full of people with soot-smeared clothes and red-stained eyes. He clutched his sketchbook like an evangelist with a bible. Had Brian and his followers survived? Were they here? In a miasma of disinfectant and vomit, parents and children clutched at or ignored each other in two long rows of seats. It looked like a war-zone.