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pillows is scattered along the bed, like a sleeping figure, round and pudgy. Next to the bed is a dresser and beside that are cardboard boxes, stacked three high. The weight of the boxes is forcing the bottom carton to sag and the stack looks about to fall at any moment. Hunter walks in and shoves the stack tight against the wall. Scrawled across the lid of the top box in his father’s handwriting is the single word: ‘Charity’.
    He rips the masking tape off the box and reaches inside. He pulls out a long-sleeved business shirt, white with thin blue stripes, and holds it up to his nose. It smells of camphor mothballs and faint traces of his father’s aftershave. He reaches into the box again and pulls out another shirt. And another. All white, with pinstripes. He wonders why his mother keeps all this stuff. Why his father didn’t take it to the charity shop before he left.
    On the opposite wall is a full-length mirror. Hunter goes to the window and looks down the street. No sign of his mother. He checks his watch. Thirty minutes until she arrives home from work. He puts his arms into his father’s shirt and pulls it on, slowly fastening each button, leaving the top one undone. The shirt hangs down a little too far. Quickly he searches in the box for a pair of his father’s slacks. Sure enough, at the bottom, neatly folded, are a few pairs. He pulls the dark blue pants up over his waist. They’re baggy and too long. Hunter leans down and rolls up the cuffs before searching in the box to find a leather belt, frayed at the edges. He threads it through the belt loops and tightens it as far as it’ll go. He takes a deep breath and stands in front of the mirror.
    He looks like a ragdoll with a scowling face. He tries to smile, but it turns out all crooked and forced. Hunter stares at himself for a long time, looking for any resemblance to his father. He has brown eyes and olive skin, like his mum. Nothing like his father’s blue eyes and pale skin. Hunter stands straighter, with his shoulders pulled back. His dad always leaned forward, as if he were trying to sell you something, as if he wanted to be your friend.
    The fabric of the shirt itches at his neck and is clammy against his skin. He puts his hands in between the buttons and rips off the shirt. The buttons fly across the room, bouncing off the mirror. He unbuckles the belt and lets the pants fall to the floor, kicking them away. They land on the bed. He throws all the clothes back into the box and closes the lid. He hates the smell of mothballs and aftershave. It clings to his body. He rushes out of the room and slams the door.
    Hunter shrugs into trackpants and a t-shirt. He wonders if his mum ever goes into the room and opens the boxes. Why doesn’t she burn them? She can’t still be hoping he’ll return, not after the postcard he sent her last week.
    New Zealand.
    Hunter remembers his dad going there twice a year on business. He’d send postcards of sparkling harbours and daredevils bungee jumping and he’d promise that next time, the whole family would go. Hunter wanted to ski, to experience the thrill of sliding down a mountain. He imagines it must be the greatest feeling, even if you have to dress like an Eskimo.
    Hunter walks into his mother’s room and goes to the second drawer of her dresser. He opens it and pulls out a woollen jumper. Underneath is a photo of the three of them at a coffee shop. Hunter is sitting in the middle. On the table near him is a thickshake in a tall glass, topped with chocolate ice-cream. To the left is his mother, smiling at the camera. To the right, his father, looking past the photographer, across the street. His eyes are hooded and he’s leaning forward, like always.
    The front door slams and his mother calls his name.
    Hunter puts the photo back and covers it with the jumper.

11
    jesse
    Dinner tonight is free-range roast chicken with gravy, potatoes and beans. Dad