The CFA chief appeared, his sweaty, shiny, stressed forehead noticeably at odds with his blue many-medalled uniform. Nearby, an on-screen expert, his expertise proven by the towers of books behind him, was identified as Professor Oscar Lynch.

Oscar’s opinions seemed more serious because he was himself a survivor of fire. Half his face was middle-aged and ordinary, the other half a pale landscape of scars. The reporter mentioned how quickly investigations now got underway, after the state’s experience with Black Saturday and the long Royal Commission, and asked him to imagine what would happen now.

‘Well, the team will do the obvious things,’ Oscar said. ‘They’ll look into CCTV footage from around the area. They’ll ask doctors to report burn injuries that could come from starting a fire rather than trying to put one out.’

‘And what can you tell us about arsonists you’ve worked with before? Are there particular characteristics they have in common? Attributes that could help investigators narrow down a list of potential suspects?’

‘Yes, there are.’ Oscar nodded emphatically. ‘Most firebugs are male. They are often loners. They’ll be in their twenties, maybe their early thirties, with a history of psychiatric disturbance. And yes, the cliché is true. Many will have a history of having joined a fire brigade. They might want to be heroes.’

A door behind the television set opened for a young female doctor, pale and tired. Ashes had been transferred from her patients to her once-white coat. A lanyard tag read Dr Selena Branham. She called us through to a small treatment cubicle, and, looking at Caleb’s head, sighed.

‘How did you hurt yourself, Caleb?’

Caleb didn’t reply.

‘He’s a CFA volunteer,’ I said. ‘Dr Branham.’

‘Call me Selena. Been a long day?’ Selena asked Caleb. ‘This happened on duty?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘You’ve had a bump on the head. What do you remember?’

He frowned. ‘I saw smoke and went to help.’

Selena transferred her attention to his hands, noting the redness and blisters. ‘Do you know how this happened?’ she asked him.

‘I think a branch fell on me.’

‘That wasn’t when your hands were burned?’

‘No.’

Unbidden, an image came to mind. His baby hands: plump, soft, with one perfect dimple at each knuckle. Hands I first held in this very hospital. They were ghosts. They’d vanished into Caleb’s growing hands, large and reddened, blackened, coarse. Now, blistered and weeping.

‘Firefighting?’ Selena asked.

Caleb locked eyes with me and nodded. Selena applied cream to his burns and wrapped his head in a bandage as white as the sheets. ‘You don’t want to talk about it yet?’

‘Not ever.’

‘The X-ray shows no sign of a fracture,’ Selena said, ‘but, based on your behaviour, Caleb, we’d like to keep you under observation.’

‘Everything’s going to be okay?’ I asked.

‘I think so.’

‘His hands too? He’s an artist.’

‘The damage is minor. Keep cream on the injured skin and watch how it heals.’

As she guided us from the room, Selena continued, ‘Everyone reacts to trauma in different ways. He’ll need to talk. Eventually.’