Up above, the sky is open blue. Down beneath, the grass is living green. Kelly watches as the smoke from his mouth curls out into the blue. Near to him, in a group to his left, a girl plays bongos. She is wearing a tan fringed jacket. She has feathers in her hair. This morning she gave Kelly a flower. Someone else is playing an acoustic guitar. Maybe it’s Dan, muting the chords with his fat fingers. Reedy voices that have been up all night and into today attempt to keep pace with the stumbling guitar.

Somewhere off to Kelly’s right, away from his people, he can hear the thunk pause thunk of a cricket bat. Spattered clapping. There are families over there. He saw them arrive, before his come-down made him lie-down. The June sun sinks – into Kelly’s face, exposed arms, feet in sandals.

A shadow touches his right leg, nearabout the ankle. Kelly looks.

A little girl, a toddler, stands there, wiping her face, gulping in the middle of a sob. The girl has her hair up in a pineapple style: blonde fronds from the top of her head. She wipes her face again.

‘Where’s my mummy?’ she says.

Kelly doesn’t know. He looks over to his friends. They’re absorbed in themselves. They haven’t seen the little girl. The bongo player has her eyes closed.

‘Where’s my mummy?’ the little girl asks again. She rubs her eyes with the flats of her hands, then stares at Kelly with huge blue peepers. ‘You take me to my mummy.’

She holds out her pudgy hand to Kelly. He looks around again. His hands are sticky from something last night. They have blades of grass on them. He pushes himself to his feet, feeling his stomach swirl.

Kelly is about six feet above the little girl. She is tiny in front of him. She holds up her arms above her head.

‘I’m not carrying you,’ Kelly says, ‘you can walk.’

She reaches her hand into his. Kelly takes her towards the families in the far side of the park.

There is an occasional cheer from the crowding families. They lounge in groups on blankets. Kids chase each other in and around the adults who have hampers open and drinks in plastic cups. Kelly sees a woman standing, hands on hips, next to an empty pram.

‘That your mum?’

The little girl pulls her hand out of Kelly’s and scuffs her feet along. She lags behind him.

‘Hey,’ calls Kelly to the woman, ‘this your daughter?’

The woman sees the little girl hiding.

‘Lola? Where have you been?’ The woman takes her hands off her hips. ‘Come on then. Sorry,’ she says to Kelly, ‘she’s always running off.’

Lola starts sniffing. She starts catching her breath.

‘Don’t start with that,’ says her mother. She tuts. It’s a hard sound. It sounds like doors to dark rooms shuffling shut and windows closing.

Kelly drops to a squat, gathers Lola in his arms, picks her up and runs.

He runs over the green living grass. He runs towards the fence at the edge of the park, which hides the stream. He feels the sun’s benediction on the top of his head. He hears his sandals slap slapping on the soles of his feet. He sees Lola’s blonde fronds lifting and falling to the cadence of his stride. Lola’s arms are around his neck and she is laughing.