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shore and the tree. “You were doing breaststroke. You looked okay. Lucky I had the raft, though.”
    I stared up the bank. His so-called raft was a row of planks bound together with rotting string and tied to the top of some rusty metal drums.
    “Where did you get that thing?” I said. “What are you even doing here?”
    Liam pulled at his shorts. From one edge, a thick, raised scar tracked down his leg like a centipede.
    “I knew you were swimming somewhere,” he said. “That day near the pool … your hair was wet.” He picked up a stone and skimmed it out across the water. It skipped once, twice, then sank.
    “Dad made the raft,” he said after a while. “We used to come up here all the time.”
    “Your dad made that?”
    Liam’s face clouded. “He’s not stupid. He’s just–”
    “I didn’t mean that,” I said quickly. “I meant I didn’t know you came up here. You and him.”
    “Oh.” Liam picked up a leaf and tore down the centre along its knobbly spine. “Well, we don’t any more. Mum said it was better not to remind him. He gets … worked up.”
    I followed his gaze out to the lake, to where the clocktower would be if the map in my head was right.
    Liam crushed the leaf in his hand, releasing the sharp smell of eucalyptus, and stood up.
    “I’d better go. Mum likes me to stop in, see how he’s doing.”
    “Yeah. I should get back.” I rocked forward into a squat, then creaked slowly to my feet.
    While I pulled my clothes on, Liam dragged the raft behind a tree a little further along the shoreline.
    “I can’t believe this is still in one piece,” he said. “Sort of.” He grinned as a chunk of rotting wood broke off one side. “I forgot how much I like it here. The pool gets so crowded over summer.”
    I nodded. “Tell me about it.”
    He scratched at the ground with the rescue stick, dragging a long wavy line through the dirt. For a moment I thought he was going to say something, but then he shrugged. He gathered his shorts around him and I followed him up through the trees towards the fence, where his bike lay, resting against mine.
    We rode down the hill in silence, apart from the cicadas and the magpies and the rattle of our bikes over the bumpy track.
    As we passed the pool, we slowed, then accelerated.
    When we reached the council building, we pulled up outside. I straddled my bike while Liam leaned his against the racks out the front.
    “Well, I’d better go.” He jerked a thumb towards the door.
    “Yeah, me too.” I scuffed one foot against a pedal. “So … thanks.”
    “It’s okay. Um … see you tomorrow maybe?”
    “Yeah, maybe.”
    I kicked the pedals around and pushed down. “Hey, would you really have broken my nose?”
    As I began to roll, I heard him laugh quietly. “I don’t know,” he said. Then more loudly, as I headed off the footpath and onto the road: “Probably. Maybe.”
    When I looked back, he was grinning, watching me go.

twelve
    I was pushing my way up the last big hill when I heard it behind me – the roar of an engine, tyres crunching on the dirt road.
    Tourists. It had to be. Dad would be in the studio all day, working on Finkle, pretending to work on pots. And Mum and Hannah would be home by now, waiting in the kitchen to ask if I’d hung up my towel.
    I moved across, crunching over the sticks and leaves at the side of the road, and waited for the car to pass.
    Instead, I heard the engine slow as it pulled up alongside me.
    It was a once-green ute. A now faded and rusted and falling apart old ute which none of us could believe kept surviving the trip all the way to the city and back.
    “Elijah!”
    “Hey, doofus!” He rolled down the window, grinning, then coughed as the dust cloud he’d stirred up hit him in the face.
    I scooted my bike over awkwardly. “When did you get back?”
    “Just now.” He nodded at the backseat, which was full of books and clothes and pillows.
    “Haven’t you been home yet?”
    He shook his head.