OUT OF THE fixed constellation of his friends, B_ falls to earth like a small white stone. He is a confusion of beginnings. Before this year nothing counts and nothing belongs. He is born at 24 and denies us all, his life tipped up and emptied: away with friendships, mentors, family, company. And yet we “keep in touch”: he still sends emails. In a state of drift, he writes, “I wander the streets”. I tap back to him: “You were once so happy, so careless of yourself, so free with your gifts, so biddable. Now you’re solemn, even old.” Glancing from my screen I want to add, “What secrets are you keeping from us?”

For three years we wrapped tight any misery we had inside us. We were four friends, most comfortable talking, lounging, smoking. North of Melbourne to Mount Macedon, or down to the coast where B_’s sister lived, motoring was a kind of lounging, good only for talk. Seated in a car you need not face each other. Four travellers, we saw only the talked-of things that lay before us: how the world would be made new with us in it. The windscreen was a cinema of landscapes to enter and delight us, with music someone had provided. We would change all that out there, our plans unravelling behind us.