It’s a Saturday morning and traffic has snarled the roundabout on Cherry Street. I know why even before I see the train pulling into Werribee Station. There’s a Bulldogs game on so the car park is full. I park at the back, near the gym, cursing. I tattoo a recrimination on my thigh.

It’s quiet, and my boots sound crisply against the asphalt. I skid down the ramps into the station; everyone else is walking slowly. I’ve missed the 8.48. Fuck. There are 64 steps up the ramp to the platform and I perform walking, heel to toe, muscles in my feet engaged, tense, release. Tense. There is no rush.