The Sunday driver's car is in the shop. Restless, he tells his wife he’s going for a walk; she prefers to stay and do another load of washing.
He cannot roam as far on foot: not for him today the lashed tussock hills and mortar-coloured beaches; only the main street of Marumaru.
It is strange to pass so slowly through what has been little more than wallpaper.
He stands before one of the two abandoned department stores. His father spoke often of the great window displays. The plate-glass is now plywood, though he imagines the mannequins are still behind, waiting.