THE HOUSES IN the estate are all the same. Low-slung brick with dry brown roofs and yards. The fences are thin fibro planks woven slackly between raw concrete uprights. Deb doesn’t trust the fence. It’s like someone tried too hard to make something out of nothing.

All is rust. It flows down the walls from gutters and window frames and vents. It streaks from fastening bolts down the fence planks and piles up on the earth. It makes holes in cars. It lives on the spokes of pushbike wheels and arrives overnight on the steel lock tabs of school cases. It is your point of difference. It is how you know where you live – what is yours. Here, decay is personal.