We would listen out for the cry of the front gate: metal on oxidised metal, yawning screech, open and then closed. Kick it hard enough that the latch catches, the gate stays shut. Then scratching footsteps up the path, sometimes accompanied by the soft ticking of a push-bike. Suddenly, the birds’ playground is intruded upon by the resident’s return. Tui scatter from the flax flowers, and the stalks are left swaying, slowing, shushing each other.

Porch light comes on, key scrapes at the lock, finds purchase, turns, and the door sighs against the hall runner. Work shoes shucked off against the wall, shirtsleeves rolled up, smell of the office on the back of his neck, by the collar. Shaved maybe the day before, but still his cheek is like sandpaper on mine when he comes down for a hug.

As he arrives home, so does the night. Daylight steals from the outside in, and suddenly the world is inverted: squares of sun from the kitchen, the garden black; darker at the edges where the trees stand guard. Sound of something simmering on the stove, the extraction fan going. Where’s Will? He might say, or, Mumma home? Big sigh as he sinks into the old leather couch. Just in time for the news. He scratches the side of his head, where there’s still a bit of hair; fingernails on freckled scalp. Something smells good. Eyes get lazy. From somewhere else: whose socks are these out here? A sheepish look. The trail behind him; evidence of his own decomposing. Shoes by the front door. Keys on the windowsill. Gym bag still in the hall.