I thought inside me. And I guessed that was their answer to the whole problem and I'd have been wrong to blame them for thinking it. I was glad I was going home that night. I went to the station early, wanting to be on my way and I was sad, and there wasn't really anywhere left to go. I checked my ticket, and as I left the counter, I saw her. Just like that. She was asleep. I'd walked right past her the first time, but she wasn't very noticeable, so maybe it wasn't so strange. Lying there on the seat, she had her feet drawn up under her knees, shoes off, and a hand clutching the bushy hair that she'd always wanted to have straightened. Queenie had always slept like that, with her hand in her hair, even when she was little and I used to cover her with more of the blanket when we slept together. When I shook her gently, she opened her eyes, looking from under heavy lids. ‘Heta,’ she said. ‘Hey, what in hell you doing here mate?’ I knelt beside her. ‘Come to get you,’ I said. ‘Dad sent me.’ She shook her head, dazed. ‘No, no, he can't do that.’ I looked at the station clock. It showed seven o'clock. The train left in half an hour. ‘Where are your things?’ I said urgently. ‘Come on, quick, tell me.’ ‘Things?’ She looked blank and patted the kit beside her: ‘Them's my things.’ ‘All your things?’ ‘Yeah.’ That shook me, but pleased me too. We could get straight on the train, for I'd had her ticket bought and with me, all week. A moment before I'd nearly got the money back at the counter, but they were busy, and I hadn't had the heart either, because it was so final. I could do it back home, I'd thought. Suddenly it was an omen. ‘Hurry.’ I said, yanking her to her feet. No.’ She pulled against my hand, and there was a quick, wild look I'd never seen on her face before. ‘No, I don't want to go back.’ ‘Ma worries about you. All the time. Every day.’ ‘I'll write to her.’ said Queenie. ‘Queenie, Queenie, sister.’ I didn't have anything to say. ‘You going on that train? You could have a good time here.’ ‘No thanks.’ ‘Come round to the cafe,’ she said, with a touch of the old bossy Queenie. I followed her obediently, and hopeful, playing for time. The cafe was warm and steamy. You had to go along behind a rail by the counter and on the other side there was a string of girls serving, mostly Maori girls with tattooed hands. I noticed Queenie's hands were tattooed too— L-O-V-E, love, on the fingers of one hand, H-A-T-E, hate on the others. ‘I worked here for a bit,’ she said. ‘They all know me.’ She smiled dreamily through the steam. ‘You want something to eat?’ I looked at the food and shook my head; the potatoes mashed to grey and black; my Ma would have died to see the way they hadn't taken out the eyes. The dark pots of sludge coloured meat. There are springs of water under the earth. Under the darkness. The girls smiled at us. ‘Hi, Queenie,’ they called. ‘They sure know you,’ I said. ‘Why didn't you stay?’ ‘Stay? I dunno. Too much else to do.’ ‘Do? What d'you do?’ ‘Eh? Oh nothing.’ We bought coffee and sat down. ‘You coming with me?’ I said, and stared about me, not wanting to look into her thoughts. The Pakeha across in the next seat, picking his nose, thought I was looking at him, and decided to use a hankerchief instead. ‘Its been cold here,’ Queenie remarked. ‘I know,’ I answered. ‘I've been here a week.’ ‘Have you? What for?’ ‘Looking for you.’ ‘Is it warm at home?’ I put my hands on hers. ‘Is it warm little sister? Warm as sunlight, warm as Ma and Dad in bed. Warm as the tunnels between their legs where we used to crawl on cold