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I’m leaving the house in Tawa with two others – a kind, sharp-witted woman and a lively man, shut down for now. We’re going to the New World. I pack and repack; cash lies about, also my son’s hoody – he’s already at the place where we’re headed, the place of hope. My money won’t work there but the woman says, ‘We’ll stop at a bank outside of Tawa and draw a cheque to present in the New World.’ I see ahead to how they live there – the men in black coats and white shirts, their uncut hair, thick creamy banknotes, podocarps. We’ll live like bloody puritans.