A quiet Sunday afternoon, the last day of summer. In his room at Number 18, a nervous young man is storing his things: a small clay figure, covert photographs of his neighbours, pieces of urban junk. Two doors down, a blonde girl is packing her possessions, uncertain of where she's going next. Across the road, a mother and father are sneaking away to their bedroom; a houseful of young people are re-emerging from their night before; a man is painting the window-frames of his house.

This is a day crammed full of the unspoken, of love stories, unacknowledged grievances, unwitnessed triumphs, and, as the day falls, a moment of tragedy. With heart-stopping clarity, the lives of a city street are brought indelibly before the reader, taking on a focus like Polaroids on the page.