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“I went past the pool – thought I might give you a lift. Didn’t see you, though.”
    “I was probably getting changed.”
    “Except you’re not changed.”
    I looked down. Stupid. My bathers were clearly visible under my shirt.
    “I meant … I was in the toilet.”
    “Oh, okay.” He frowned. “Must have just missed you.”
    “You can give me a lift now.”
    I climbed off the bike and wheeled it towards the back of the ute.
    He raised his eyebrows. “We’re basically there, Cass.”
    He was right. We were. But I suddenly felt like I couldn’t go any further, like all of it had caught up with me at once – the swimming, the sinking, the stick. Not to mention this long, dusty hill.
    Elijah opened his door and climbed out. He lifted my bike into the back of the ute then turned to me. “Are you okay?”
    “Yeah. Just tired.”
    “Do your six?”
    “Yep.”
    “Hang your towel?”
    I punched him in the arm. “She still says it, you know.”
    “Oh, I don’t doubt it.” He put the car into gear and took off up the hill. “Seriously, Cass. Don’t push yourself too hard. You look wrecked.”
    When we eased into the driveway a minute later, the front door flew open immediately. Mum appeared first, followed by Hannah, then Dad.
    “Elijah!” Mum put her hands on her hips. “You should have called ahead!” She was smiling, already moving to the window to drag him out for a hug.
    “Does this mean my scones aren’t ready yet?” Elijah grinned as he climbed out of the car, unfolding his long frame and stretching his arms above his head while Mum tackled him around the waist.
    “I’d make you some,” she said. “You know I would.”
    “Yeah, but then I’d have to eat them.”
    “True.”
    “Good thing you teach history, not cooking.”
    “Cheeky!” Mum ducked her head, then caught sight of me in the passenger seat. “Cass?”
    Elijah reached up to haul my bike out of the back. “Yeah, I gave her a lift. From the pool. Right, Cass?”
    His lips were curved in the shadow of a smile. I hesitated a second before nodding. “Yeah.”
    “Do your six?” Mum asked.
    Elijah burst out laughing.
    Mum stared at him. “What’s so funny?”
    “Nothing.” He grabbed an enormous duffle bag from the back of the ute and hoisted it over one shoulder. “Better hang your towel, mate.”
    “Yeah.” I bit my lip to keep from smiling, and headed for the washing line.
    Later, after lasagne and apple pie and nothing at all resembling a Devonshire tea, we sat around the table. Elijah told us about his exams and the share house he was living in with six other guys, and how he seriously doubted the ute was going to survive another trip. Hannah told him about the centenary celebrations and showed him the draft of the book she’d printed out to make notes on.
    Dad told him about the Finkle-head and the pots, and Elijah agreed to help him finish things up and cart them into town. But when he asked Dad to show him Finkle, Dad shook his head.
    “Not yet,” he said. “It’s still … developing.”
    Hannah sighed. “That’s one word for it.”
    Finkle was being difficult, apparently. Or Dad was, depending on how you looked at things.
    “He wants me to work from this,” Dad said, pulling a folded photograph from his pocket.
    Hannah rolled her eyes. “That old thing again?”
    Dad nodded. “I know. It hardly even looks like him any more.”
    “We keep telling him,” Hannah said. “He won’t listen. Says he hasn’t changed that much. He’s in denial or something.”
    I peered down at the photo. There were some notes scribbled along the edge in black texta – “Left side best” and “Not really that wrinkly”. The face itself was crisscrossed by a grid of lines which divided it up into tiny squares.
    Dad snorted. “He seems to think I can just copy the photo, one square at a time.”
    He ran a finger across the crosshatched Finkle-face. It was like those drawings I used to do when I was little, where you