But to peddle hope is to profit from unfulfilled promises. Tarantino and Wright pivot to the ’60s defensively, exploiting our shared desire for something better to preserve their legacies without having to address the limits of their ethical worlds. Though it is less immediately obvious, with Utopia Avenue Mitchell exploits that desire, too.

We arrive at night. On the way, traffic clogs the M4 and we move slowly up and over the range. Fog swarms across the road, retreating into wet gullies. Isla falls asleep, dribbling. ‘Thank fuck,’ mutters Jay as he turns the engine off. ‘Two hours, my ass.’ He unfurls long legs. I pull Isla from her booster seat, cheeks hot, arms stuffed into her red corduroy jacket like a fat rag doll. The others are inside, with every light on.

She was standing between rows of bras in Kmart when the pain came. She’d been having twinges all morning, twinges she’d put down to eating two bags of liquorice allsorts the night before, but it wasn’t that kind of pain after all, it was…appendicitis? She grabbed a handful of bras, staggered into the nearest changing room and closed the door.

Out by the sandbar the cockles are thick under the feet, crowding out of the mud at low tide. Toe them up, rinse them off and into the bucket, keeping an eye on the boy. He sits in the mud, squeezing it through his fingers. His too-small tee shirt slides up his belly.

They were skating this mini ramp down by the bike path, Shane and the boys. It was awesome how pedestrians and bike riders, whole families, would stop and watch. Like they were doing a proper demonstration. Pretty bloody fun. They’d change runs based on the foot traffic and the crowds that gathered. When there was a lull, they’d rest perhaps, or practice some new stuff, because when there was a crowd they wanted to put on a show.

Jess tossed and turned in her bed. Far away, she imagined thick sleeves of bull kelp sucking against limestone cliffs. The sea was restless, spreading itself over the crumbling city grid where vehicles dunked and flipped. Houses turned to flotsam as the Earth blinked, the eye of the storm turned away from the sun. There was no Moon—everything was churning liquid, rubbery darkness. She had sunk to the ocean floor, head firmly anchored to the pillow.

We live in a hotel now. Well, for the moment anyway. Until Thursday. Until the money runs out. Everything smells like mushrooms. People come and go, with their conferences and morning corporate functions. This morning, when we filled up on our complimentary breakfast in the small dining room for guests, I felt someone’s eyes on me and curled my lip. The animal in me rising.

Out at the rubbish tip, she was first to spot the old caravan. It sat proud amid the twisted swing-sets, crushed white dishwashers, and dejected hot water systems. ‘If you fix it up maybe we can go up north next winter, Jase?’ Jason was always up for bringing new life where others had abandoned hope. ‘The world has gone mad with all this stuff,’ he’d often say. ‘Why we need all this shit is beyond me.’

I don’t make the doors. I just fix them. People always think there’s a special trick to it, some training I’ve done. When they ask, I smile but don’t give too much away. Part of the job is being mysterious. Clients expect it. You’ve got a door doing weird shit, you don’t call a repairman expecting him to be normal.

In the building where I work there is an automatic door that opens into a brick wall. I should specify that this door is not an allegory. The door that goes nowhere actually exists. I can show the door to you if you would like to see it. I was first shown the door by a beautiful musician named Joel.

And these passengers, along with the driver, will be unhappy, both as a result of the time you’ve wasted fumbling at the scanner with your bus pass and because of the smell emanating from your long, matted hair, which they’ll have to endure for the rest of your trip. They’ll whisper among themselves as they glare at you and make mock retching gestures.

There’s only one road out of the mountains and that plays on their minds. There’s an air strip and a dam. Poor options if the Wild Red Herbivore, driven mad by wind, comes raging and ripping and wrecking its way through the forest. It’s savaged this forest before, leaving scars and stags—dead standing trees.

Around that time I’d spend most Saturdays on the couch watching television. And around that time my younger brother had a habit of nagging me. He’d pull my sleeves or kick my feet and make demands. I tried not to be harsh with him, for my mother’s sake, but also because I didn’t want to damage his view of me.

The drama room floor is cold and painted black. Looked upon closely, the way Mary does during the exercises Ms Kelly gets them to do lying down, the brushstrokes on it are visible—sweeping bristle lines over and across again, into one another like the whorls in palms and fingerprints, fainter and deeper by turns.

The ground against her back, Leila has her eyes on the sky. Not long ago it was watercolour blue, milky and pale and full of cotton-ball clouds; now blue is draining from it and the air is cooler. Her fingertips feel icy. She reaches an arm towards her backpack, still there on the dry leaves.