A police four-wheel drive was at the site. Bill Mackay approached, pulling a cap over his eyes. Another police officer in a high-vis vest used a chainsaw to attack the fallen tree.

‘It’s not good,’ Bill said to Jack. ‘I’ve started investigating. You should, too.’

‘Your investigation?’ I asked Jack.

‘Fire evidence is our speciality. Don’t get too close,’ Jack warned as we neared the wrecked cars. ‘This is a crime scene.’

Jack didn’t know I’d already been here. He peered through the window of the nearest vehicle, then pulled off his hat, wiping his forehead. The back of a dirty forearm left a smear like Ash Wednesday. I remembered the two charred shapes in the front seat, grotesque ashen crash-test dummies leaning towards one another. I saw them, strolling through Brunton on a sweltering hot day, thongs and baggy T-shirts, a wide pram.

‘You know them?’ asked Bill.

Jack nodded. ‘It’s Bryce Miller behind the wheel. Maybe Kate. I can’t tell.’

A haze of more than smoke settled over me. The Millers. I hadn’t even recognised their car. This was my own neighbourhood. I had certainly seen Kate on the day of her death. Earlier in the year, I had welcomed her daughter to my school, promising I’d take care of her.

I clutched Jack’s arm. He was the only thing that felt real.

‘Not too close,’ said Bill. ‘Don’t touch anything.’

Where there had once been a rear-facing child seat, now there was an ash-covered, twisted metal frame. I thought of the baby, then Matilda in the BuyCheap trolley, grinning. And her school hook, with the giraffe, that would never hold her Play School bag again. Was that bag among the ashes near her tiny, desiccated body? That’s how bad the burning was. I couldn’t tell.

I consider the Anglo-Saxon stories of my own distant ancestors, the Roman stories uncovered on pots, the stories of this place that Indigenous people fight to preserve. We are made from ashes, ashes and dust, we build homes upon the lost culture of conquered peoples, buried heroes and legends.

Eventually enough timber was removed for Jack’s ute to pass. A few minutes later, we pulled up, back at St Monica’s refuge centre.

Smoke was clearing a little. A dozen or so people thronged at the entrance, dragging on cigarettes and holding onto each other. Another ute had also arrived, its tray full of baked beans and tinned tomatoes. Charities were aware that survivors could be isolated for days or weeks. The instinctive generosity of Australians was evident in the sheer volume of donations they found to share. I helped Jack carry some boxes he’d been transporting. He was stronger than me, but everyone struggled with normal activities in the hard-to-breathe air.

‘You wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you home in a few minutes.’

Another driver swung from his ute and piled up four heavy boxes, struggling to carry them. Jack was taking a while. I could be useful. I approached the other driver. ‘Can I help?’