I’m on a mission but he’s battling too—weighed down with shopping and a caterwauling toddler. As I help lift the buggy down from the bus, my kaleidoscope of memories starts with a whiff. Stale sweetness. Sour milk. Her nappy wafts a potent mix. She’s the same weight as Macey, red moons for cheeks, her lips crumbed in orange, moustached by Wotsits. Now her squawking’s subsided, she mewls like a kitten, and I’m catapulted back to being a silly-grinned dad. Picnics with Macey. Trips to the park, her teddy bear coat so soft in my palms.

Higher, I push her higher, and she soars on the swing. High, towards the clouds until a growl bursts my bubble, and the bus-dad snarls, “What are you doing?”

And I’m crashed, back to earth but still holding on. I lower her gently so there’s no hard bump down, just a swoosh of closing doors as the bus roars away.

“S’sorry, mate,” I stutter, “old habits die hard.”

But I don’t tell him how hard it is, how I can’t let go.

“Stay lucky,” I shout as they’re lost to the crowd.

I’m wretched on the pavement; the next bus is late.

Perhaps it’s my time, and this meeting wasn’t chance. Time now to stop the carousel, another chance to quit? But I’m shredded to raw seeing that girl with her dad, and the monster inside me is screaming for help. He knows the best medicine to treat an old wound, to blot out the ending of the story I starred in, the story I wrote, about a dad who chose heroin over the best thing he ever had.

Take the bus to the dealer, or walk the other way?

I’m still hesitating.

The bus is still late.