Steve usually gets home from work around four-something. His front door only opens with the help of a shoulder, and his black cat is usually always woken by this racket, and will sing to Steve from the doorway to the kitchen for its dinner.
Last night's dinner has dried - half eaten - on a plate in the sink, and the fridge is empty. Over by the TV the message machine casts shadows over the wall with its red indicator light.
"Steve - Dad fell over in Murray St and broke his hip, he's looking pretty rough but everyone at the hospital say he's going to be okay."