Fire could have sucked all oxygen from the air, it was so hard to breathe. Left her behind. I tried to imagine being Penelope. How it must feel for her to be grieving her parents and hearing rumours about Caleb. I tried calling Penelope, but her phone message now said she was with her aunt and out of town. Learning to live with her new family, I suspected. As though family was replaceable. I tried to imagine being Penelope. How it must feel for her to be grieving her parents and hearing rumours about Caleb. The police would be questioning her too. Would she be able to keep believing in him?

I left a message asking what she was saying about Caleb, what she intended to say in the future. But I wasn’t sure she’d reply or even hear it, and there was no way to force the contact. My heart broke for her. And I wanted to get in touch.

Back home, I sent Jack into the kitchen for beer. It was room temperature, but it was wet and frothy. I pulled out an old guitar and plucked at some chords, considering how small vibrations from its thin strings forced music from the soundbox. Music needs air to travel like fire needs oxygen to grow.

We loafed in my sitting room while the world darkened. Jack drank his beer.

Days passed. One week since the bushfire became two. Our power was reconnected. Terrible stories continued to filter through the fire zone. I learned that Michael Gillan had been called away from the hospital the night Caleb was admitted because his own house was alight. His wife and daughter, Shelly and Violet, were among the victims. Meanwhile, Caleb’s refusal to give a more detailed alibi became an entrenched thing, as certain a part of the Brunton fire as the death toll. He left the CFA at 4 pm. His explanation about going home to pick up his sketchbook did not satisfy the investigators. He’d completed dozens. Why come back for this one? But he would say no more about it. They looked at the sketchbook. I looked at the sketchbook, it showed more of Caleb’s graphic stories. Jack said Caleb was back in Brunton at 4.30 so he must have ridden very quickly, but that time was possible. He was a fast cyclist and had reasons to hurry.

Rain didn’t last. Heat returned. The smell of burned flesh became the putrid odour of rotting, bloated carcasses. The fetid side of human nature came out too, with looters ransacking the ruins of people’s homes for melted jewellery and other valuables. A group of local teenagers was blamed. It was obvious kids needed to go back to school. Little kids needed a return to normalcy, as much as big kids needed to be kept out of trouble. Brunton Primary was my school. Three of the four closest campuses had been destroyed.