A small hand is lost in mine as we cross High Street in Melbourne on a fresh February evening. A dog - we discover its name is Wednesday - stands on the footpath, held by a gentle stranger.
The small hand leaves mine and, after permission is granted, pets Wednesday and coos. This is a 10-second beautiful friendship. Then, as we walk on, I reach for the small hand again because I have forgotten how it feels. Two years have passed since I last met my seven-year-old granddaughter and I am holding on for dear life.