The absence of a government directive blaring from audio-points should have been welcome, a potent reminder of renaissance, yet silence hung heavy, trapped within her apartment walls like a Port Phillip sea fog. Yesterday morning, Emma hadn’t noticed the lack of intrusion, her desire for punctuality overriding all else, the resumption of a workday routine after 12 months of unemployment shaping every minute from the moment of waking.
First on the agenda was an alarm cancellation instruction to her bedside device, given in a whisper to ensure she didn’t disturb her son. Less than 24 hours had elapsed since Jack’s return home from a youth detention centre, where he’d been detained along with numerous others for participating in a student protest in the street opposite the imposing stone faç
