Early on Monday evening, in the chill July dark, Sacha was on the 'phone to her sister Kate. It had become an almost weekly appointment: Sacha would call her after six when she could be sure Kate was back from work - or, more often, Kate would call Sacha. Either way, Kate insisted with the acquired protectiveness of a younger sibling that she and not Sacha should bear the cost of the call: "After all" she explained, "They overpay you in the public service. I've got to do something with the money." Sacha accepted this argument, telling herself not to be so proud about it, and so on those occasions when she called Kate, Kate made her hang up and promptly called her back.

On this particular occasion, Sacha was relaying to Kate the details of the protest she'd attended the previous week. Although Kate wasn't nearly as political as Sacha - at least, she hadn't always been - they had both been raised in Canberra, so a certain level of political awareness was inevitable.

"So you just walked off?" asked Kate. "Just like that?"

Sacha could picture the grin on her sister's face at the other end of the line: Kate had long since become accustomed to the ways in which Sacha's sometimes quick temper manifested itself.

"Ugh" said Sacha, disgusted afresh at the memory of the speaker whose words had made her turn her back on the protest. "I just can't stand that kind of bullshit. I mean, how the hell is anything ever going to change if we don't accept help when it comes along? It's not like we're in a position to pick and choose here. I mean, a guy like Georgiou sticks his head up, and all these arseholes who parade themselves as the champions of the refugees tell him: 'It's the wrong kind of help, we don't want you.' It drives me mad!"

"Well . . ." Kate tried to organise her thoughts. "These people, they're idealists. I mean, is that such a terrible thing?"

"Idealists?" spat Sacha with contempt. "They're zealots! If you're not in their little club they won't talk to you. And them and the Labor Party, that's the fucking voice of the Left these days. No wonder this country's so fucked up."

"Jesus, mate, easy!" Kate laughed nervously.

"Oh, come on. It's not like you've never seen me worked up before."

"Like this? Not often."

"Bullshit!" Sacha laughed this word out, aware that her sister of all people wouldn't take oddence. "Anyway" she reasoned. "Someone's got to get worked up about these things."

"Well" said Kate, "at least you're making friends down there. That's a good thing."

"Jesus, you sound like Mum!"

"Hmm . . ." replied Kate. In fact, she'd always taken after their mother. "Mum and Dad said to send you their love, by the way. You should call them some time."

"I guess I should" said Sacha flatly. A pang of guilt rushed over her: she knew she should. "I will, soon" she promised, "But you know how bad I am at staying in calling anyone." It was true, but she couldn't help thinking how unconvincing it sounded.