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?’

The man tipped his head to see around his stack of boxes. I knew him. Silas Thompson, whose son Simon owned one of the collapsed and burned hooks in my classroom. ‘Go right ahead.’

‘How’s Simon?’

‘He’s okay. He’ll be better when school goes back.’

‘We’ll have to see what we can do.’

I picked up a couple of boxes and followed him into the church hall. It was only last night I’d been here, but the space was vastly different. Order was now imposed over what previously had been a giant manifestation of Caleb’s bedroom floor, with scatterings of clothes and other offerings.