NOW THAT HE had moved into Leichhardt’s fading Italian Forum, Ben’s commute to work was a five-minute bike ride. Cycling at 4.45 am made him notice menial things in the neighbourhood that he couldn’t help catalogue. Like the piles of hard rubbish that were slowly dwindling thanks to recyclers – someone had scored the floor lamp and the gamer’s chair overnight – and the real-estate sign outside the terrace at the end of Norton Street that had a red and white ‘SOLD’ sticker plastered across it after only being up for a day. The whole morning felt red and white. Empty roads and parked cars, clear sunbreak sky but for one long cloud; that beginning of winter static on his tattooed arms.

Rob already had the truck running and was testing the mechanisms as Ben chained his bike up in the usual spot under the jacaranda. When he opened the door to swing himself up into the cabin along with his backpack, he was startled to see someone other than Sione sitting primly in the middle seat.